For about eight years, my parents have been talking about tearing down their little cottage and building a beautiful beachfront home in which to retire. The planning began in earnest three or so years ago with the drafting of house plans. Multiple versions later (we're talking double-digits) we were ready to go one year ago and even spent Thanksgiving weekend tearing apart the interior and salvaging any materials of value. But before the demolition crew could move in, there was a major change in the construction strategy involving the firing and hiring of engineers. This resulted in another year's worth of drafts that saw the plans go from two modest structures, to one monster house and back again.
The whole planning process became a bit of a running joke in my family. My sisters and I even had an informal betting pool on the completion date. At first, my parents were offended because we were picking dates that were years beyond thier target. But then, more than one of those dates passed and still no construction. It got to the point where they would talk about demolition and I would cut them off and say "I'll believe that when I see it."
And then this weekend I did.
And so it begins...