The Gray-Haired Golden Rule - Response to TV Show Viewers: Post 67

Response to TV Show Viewers: Post 1 - January 23, 2026

Response to TV Show Viewers: Post 66 - June 24, 2026

The start of this blog in 2011, aimed for something of a how-to tone, sharing advice and writing the steps to help aspiring DIYers progress through their own rehabs. Yet with the reflective storytelling, it’s understandable how some may consider it memoirish or a hybrid how-to/memoir. And this whole series is closer to the second of the two genres.

This post is more than a response to questions or comments. It’s backstory worth sharing as I conclude with cheerful memories making Restoring Charleston.

 

The Golden Rule is a universal beacon for civility: treat others the way you want to be treated. The Gray-Haired Golden Rule, is this guidance with a twist: treat seniors as you’d want someone to treat your own grandparents. And if you don’t have solid relationships with your elders, Lord watch out for the silver headed nearby.

In 1994, I moved into a Cincinnati apartment managed by a widow who was spread thin and beginning to fray. Oversights and reasonable lapses led tenants of this twenty-unit building to move out. However, I stayed. And by year’s end, it was down to just us in this three-story brick in Hyde Park.

Rather than virtuousness, my hanging in there was rooted in my grandparents and this landlady reminding me of them. Perhaps it was because her life had mirrored theirs—the Great Depression, Pearl Harbor leading to WWII, followed by the post-war boom, space race, and the seventies. For the lack of a better way of describing it, what loomed was some hazy obligation to help her as I would want someone to be there for my own elderly relatives.

After becoming disoriented out and about in the Queen City, this childless woman found herself at The Christ Hospital. She had no family in the area, and it had taken me two weeks to figure out where she was. Due to cautionary abundance wrapped in legal reasons beyond me, TCH staff was obligated to detain her.

It eventually became clearer how this would culminate in her becoming a ward of the state, whatever that may have meant. After I tiptoed around this news, she revealed how she was well aware. “I know what they’re saying, young man,” was her reply.   

Mrs. Drollinger never said my name, and young man registered with my ears like an accepted nickname that she used at her convenience.

She understood the future she might be faced with but wasn’t having it. Even though it appeared as if her fate was sealed, she then set me straight as she grabbed a phone and opened up the yellow pages. “Where there’s a will there’s a way,” she said before adding, “And I’m getting out of here.”

Then against some tall odds this detainee proved the hospital know-it-alls wrong and found a way to be discharged.

Five years later, after buying a condemned house that I was determined to rehabilitate, inspiration was drawn from this triumphant pathfinder from my past. And when construction authorities explained how bringing on a full-time GC was paramount, her words echoed in my head. When some said the smoke smell was unconquerable, I remembered her resolve. When the twelve-month schedule was deemed inadequate, I reminded myself that “where there’s a will there’s a way.”

And just like how it worked out with the hospital forecasters, the construction expert’s pre-determinations were sidestepped.

What would eventually inspire me to find a way of reconnecting her with distant family living in Oklahoma, was an oven fire in her apartment. My first attempts to put it out with my pintsized extinguisher didn’t work and the 9-11 operator dispatched the emergency brigade. Then, after persuading this septuagenarian to step outside, the army of responders flooded Linshaw Court as we walked out the front entrance.  

Although the flames had been snuffed out—the third time had been the charm for my extinguisher—they’d come prepared for the worst. Besides the hook and ladder truck, there was the fire chief, an ambulance, and a couple other red vehicles.

The building’s owner was genuinely amazed. And naturally, passively, she simply asked to herself more than me, yet aloud, “Is all this for me?”    

 

We were just into the first summer week of 2016 and I was filled with intense excitement, nervousness, and a healthy anxiety that would keep me necessarily focused until the circumstances wrapped in August. The production phase, the process of filming the projects for Restoring Charleston, had begun in the small southern town of St. George.

The Appleby House sat on the edge of town and had been vacant for fifty years before being condemned by local building officials. At least, that’s what I’d been told and everything pointed to this being true. Following an invitation to have a look, I took a chance and became the owner. The windows and doors were still partially boarded up, and I was likely a schoolboy the last time the wood siding or trim had been painted.

Appleby - Before

After thorough reviews, I felt at ease about structural integrity. It looked decidedly worse than it actually was, my type of project house for sure and ideal for a TV rehab.

Built circa 1895, this home had been crafted by skilled tradesmen of its era, surviving over a century of scorching summers and countless hurricanes while racking up more years than anyone still alive. It was laced with artful interior trim, mantels, and doors that were salvageable, with heart pine floors to accompany bead board walls and ceilings.

Occupied by spiders, dead rodents, and one mummified cat, it was a prime candidate for generating Halloween season unease. Although some locals were convinced that this place was inhabited by ghosts, I’d been all through the home, alone multiple times with only a flashlight keeping me company. I felt no creepy vibes nor heard any questionable noises. Nothing had given me serious pause.

In the early days of getting up to speed with the task at hand, producers had been overheard speculating on Appleby as the most challenging rehab effort in the network’s history. This may have been a stretch, but still, it made me feel good, this possibility of being placed atop this unofficial mountaintop.

Coupled with my faith, what allowed me to be worry-free in that moment, was my confidence in the pros mobilizing around me. But being straightforward, fair to myself, I’d taken on more awful with much less help. It was simply a great old home, with palpable potential, and too special to ignore. By way of the pictures I’d taken and emailed, the producers in New York and Los Angeles had fallen for it too.

In this first week, the site was humming with grips and assistants busy setting up cameras and equipment. There were production crews staffed by people from all over the country, along with dozens of local contractors, tradespeople, and an interior design team. A production trailer had landed in a back corner of this parcel, strategically placed to be out of site throughout filming. A large storage container for equipment, supplies, fixtures, and materials was behind the office box. Dumpsters, work trucks, and trailers filled the fringes of our lot. The planted cotton field directly behind us was off-limits, but vehicles had spilled over into the vacant area across the street. Icing on this cake was an air-conditioned restroom trailer—one side for women, the other for men—tucked within an enormous cluster of towering azaleas. In three decades, I had no memory of any jobsite perk topping this.

In addition, were the two other houses on the opposite side of town. This St. Geo trio had been acquired to revive this summer, yet we were only rehabbing and filming two of these three simultaneously. Without a doubt, it would be my greatest professional challenge yet. The third home had been placed on the back burner. Along with apologies, were network assurances of them returning next year to be part of its rebirth.

This bustling scene was radically different from my first pig’s ears in the early years of the new millennium. Suddenly, from some dusty corner of my mind, a question leaked out, “Is all this for me?”

More than a case of me hearing voices, it was a spewed memory in the form of a rhetorical question. Insinuations of unworthiness were absent here, with me willing to believe that travels on the road to this point had made me deserving.

Then this internal monologue was interrupted. The sound of cheerleaders practicing on the other side of the street busted through the usual cacophony of jobsite activity—barking and banter, tools banging, equipment revving. These peppy teenagers were likely hoping to witness some filming or perhaps even get captured on camera.

The atmosphere was circus-like.

“Is all this for me?” Those were the words spoken by my landlady years back as we emerged from the smoke-filled building as vehicles of the rescue fleet took positions in front of our near-empty building.

Now, it was as if she was pridefully haunting me, like a fifth grandparent.

Mrs. Drollinger had been amazed then, just as I was in that moment looking over the energized scene. It was radically unlike my history of solitude on desolate house projects in my rearview, years of long days spent alone, thinking things through by myself. I knew that with all the support, the upcoming months would be comparably different than those early unwanted home restorations; teams and crews tackling the lion’s shares of the work as production assistants brought me coffee, offered water, or took my lunch order each day in between direction and questions with cameras recording.

Appleby - After

I was filled with awe and appreciation, imagining five satisfied faces sitting in the bleachers of heaven, giving me an extra reason to smile as I put forth my best efforts to deliver for producers.

Was all that for me?

My people would answer yes.

Response to TV Show Viewers: Post 68 - June 29, 2026

Dessie: Patience & Work Ethic

I’m writing about my grandparents this month.  (Please consider reading Grandpa and My Mere Mere)

Besides having the great name of Dessie, my Dad’s mom was a super cool lady, especially with her grandchildren.  I remember her, me, and my younger brother being out in the yard after a serious downpour, one that created a big puddle in her yard.  Tyler was tip-toeing next to the water, like a tight rope walker, staying dry until I gave him a little bump; just enough to send him face first into the deep puddle.  He was mad, but Grandma was total calmness.  She wasn’t happy either.  Not at all.  But she just gave me a look, one that said it all.  Then she took care of my soaked brother.

My grandma got excited, but only at the right times.  Like when she was happy or having fun or schooling me in a game of Racco.  She was a rock when she needed to be; like with my Aunt Velma who had Down’s Syndrome and spent a lot of her later years living with my grandparents.  My Aunt Velma was sweet and fun, but she also needed extra attention and my grandma was so great to/with her.  I need more of that.  When my plumber has an avoidable leak, or a mason has to rebuild a wall or chimney that’s not plumb, or one of my subcontractors blows me off for another client, I need to remember my grandma.  I need to keep calm and have patience.

The Early Birds; folded, bagged, and
stacked on the table.  Good times!  

But equally important is how my Grandma helped to instill a valuable attitude about work into her grandchildren.  As retirees, my grandparents had two newspaper routes that they did together.  They got the bundles of papers on Mondays and delivered them to farmers and rural families on Tuesdays.  We’d fold the newspapers with them every Monday after school.  Not some Monday’s.  Each and every Monday.  Was it work?  You bet it was.  But was it fun at Grandma’s while we worked?  Oh yeah.  She enjoyed and needed our help, but there were no rules on the snacks.  I mean, it was like Willie Wonka’s Chocolate Factory over there; M&M’s, Hershey Bars, Coke’s, ice cream bars, etc.; lots of things that could distract you from the job of folding the newspapers and stuffing them in one of the round laundry baskets.  But here was the lesson that got drilled into us over the weeks, months, and years:  the harder we worked the more we got paid.  The rule was:  A penny a paper.  This was how it was forever, until Grandma passed away. 

Remember how my grandma took it easy on me when I pushed my brother into that puddle.  Well, when it came to paying up for folding newspapers, she was all business.  No breaks.  An important lesson.  Tears, begging, the boo-boo face… nothing mattered.  She stuck to the rule.  Always.  If I dawdled around and only folded one bundle, then I got two quarters and that was it.  If I got at it and knocked out six bundles, then I got my three bucks.  And there was no bonus money or tips for folding those massive papers with all the Christmas advertisements in December.  She may have indulged us with the sweets and gifts, but when it came to paying us for folding the newspapers, she was strict, firm, and unyielding.  She was teaching us something we needed.



Miss you Grandma...



As I've mentioned before, I played sports in high school and took a lot away from those experiences about work and perseverance, but early on folding those papers was tough and my grandma taught me how to push through tired times when I wanted to stop.  Some may wonder if I've ever wanted to quit in the middle of one of my Pig's Ear projects.  I haven't.  Not once.  Honestly, that has never crossed my mind.  Other people have encouraged me to walk away before a closing or figure out a way to get out of finishing, but I’ve kept on and made it through each one.  And to be fair that’s not all about my grandmother's influence, I just really love what I do and leaving my project unfinished would mean... missing out on a whole lot of fun.

Jump to Pere Pere:  Our Jack of all Trades

My Mere Mere: Concrete & Faith

I’m writing about my grandparents this month.  (Please consider reading Grandpa:  Work,Clean-Up, & Nails.)

The names for my Dad’s parents were straight-up and easy; Grandpa and Grandma.  But we all know how it goes and one set of grandparents has to be called something else so we call my Mom’s parents Mere Mere and Pere Pere.  That’s what my older brother started calling them, he was the first grand for everyone, they thought it was cute, end of story.

First off, Mere Mere was the one who introduced me to concrete.  It may sound odd, but it's true.  Here's how it went.  She was a school teacher and Pere Pere was an electrician.  They spent a lot of time building together as a team and she knew everything from mixing mortar and concrete to framing walls to hanging wallpaper.  I grew up in a house in the country that Mere Mere had built after Pere Pere died.  Like Garage #2 and The Fire House, this building was replacing one that was lost to a fire.  Anyway, I remember going out to check on this house with Mere Mere during its’ construction.  She held my hand firmly as we walked by a small section of freshly poured concrete.  She explained with intriguing detail how concrete worked.  I remember being fascinated because she explained how it was wet and soft before it would become hard like a sidewalk.  For a toddler, that was pretty cool.  She explained all of this like the teacher that she was as she held my hand and stood between me and the small wet pad.  



Mere Mere loading the mixer, on-site
with my grandpa in the 40's.

Then we walked to the back door, checked on the progress on the inside, and walked back toward her car.  She never let go of me, so as we walked back to her car, I was next to the concrete as we went by.  I don’t know what I was thinking.  I guess I wanted to better understand what was happening with the concrete because as we passed by I stomped my foot into the middle of the wet square.  Mere Mere was right!  It was soft and not at all like the sidewalk!  I remember her being a mixture of exasperation and amusement.  Now that I’m a parent, I get this, but I think she handled it better than this guy would have; she carefully cleaned off my shoe then calmly fixed the concrete before we were on our way back to town.  That’s a good memory.



But the most important thing I got from my maternal grandmother is faith.  Mustard seed-type faith that makes a person think they can save a condemned or abandoned house that no one else wants.  Norman Vincent Peale’s father was the presiding minister at Mere Mere's parent’s wedding and she was a big fan of his work for her entire life.  She especially loved his book The Power of Positive Thinking.  Without Mere Mere and the wisdom in that book, I would have never bought The Fire House.  No way.

After we moved into Mere Mere’s house, she designed and had a triplex built for herself that had two apartments that she rented out.  When one of the block retaining walls needed to be replaced, she let me do it for her.  For me, this was just plain fun.  And even though she didn’t pay me, I was in charge, she let me plan and figure it all out, so I always think of this as one of my first jobs. 

Twenty years after stomping my foot in that little pad for the TV antennae, she let me form up and build that wall for her.  So because of all this, I think of Mere Mere just about every time I’m working with concrete… but more significantly I think of her every time I sign my name to take ownership of a Pig's Ear that no one else wants.  With faith of a mustard seed, anything's possible.  Thank you, Mere Mere.


Mere Mere had cataract surgery before our brother's wedding.
When she showed up with sun glasses, we followed her
lead and hammed it up for a photo.

Jump to Dessie: Patience & Work Ethic    

Grandpa: Work, Clean-up, & Nails

My grandparents have been a big part of my life, so I think about them all a lot.  These are special times in our family so they’ve been in my thoughts even more in the last few months and I wanted to share some memories that pertain to me and these properties we call Pig’s Ears.  Now I think of my parents all the time too, but it seems like it’s more in a personal way.  For example, when I'm complimented or recognized for a positive trait that someone sees in me, I typically think, “I wish Mom or Dad could hear that because they’re really talking about them.”  Or I say or do something that’s thoughtful or extra funny and naturally think, “That’s something my Dad or Mom would do/say.”  

My thoughts that link back to my grandparents are more work related.  I don’t know how else to explain it, but when I’m working I'm reminded of them frequently.



Today would be my Grandpa’s birthday; my Dad’s dad.  His family traces back to the Pennsylvania Dutch which is likely why he always called Eastern PA, ‘God’s Country.’  My grandpa stopped going to school when my great-grandfather got sick with what he always called ‘the muscle disease.’  Besides taking a lead role in helping my great-grandmother keep their small family farm going, he was also a primary caregiver for his bedridden dad for over two decades.



My grandpa w/ his dad before the Great Depression
and prior to my Gt. Grandfather's illness.

When my great-grandfather passed away, my grandpa got married and started his life away from the farm.  He traveled and worked in sales selling feed for a milling company.  As a side business (and then into retirement) he boarded and trained horses.  He had a sizable barn for the animals, feed, and equipment that he needed to operate his stable so because Grandpa was a horseman I had plenty of opportunities to work with him. 

Hauling material into one of my projects reminds me of stocking my grandpa’s barn with hay or straw.  These are really good memories.  The messiness that is oftentimes a part of the initial cleanup of some of my Pig’s Ear properties has more than once reminded me of cleaning out the stalls and loading up his wooden manure spreader, which was a little on the nasty side, but all things considered still pretty fond recollections.  But the thing that reminds me most of my grandpa is the nails that I use to put my houses back together since he always supplied me with this hardware until I left home for college as a teenager. 

My grandpa was a pipe smoker and his tobacco was Sir Walter Raleigh.  He bought it in cans which he saved and reused.  When I ran out of nails at home, I’d let him know and he’d hook me up with more; 8 pennies or framing nails (16d), either of the two different sizes that he always had a 50# box of for mending fences and the barn.  I used those nails for our own barn maintenance (something that I really enjoyed doing whether we needed it or not) and also for building my tree houses.  Hammering nails is a skill.  It’s easy to learn, but it takes some practice and I learned early and got comfortable with a hammer and nails with the help of Grandpa and his endless supply in the orange and black cans.

Last month, I had to buy more 16d sinkers and was surprised that something about buying that 30# bucket of hardware still filled me with some boyish-type excitement, the same thrill that I’d get when my grandpa would give me another full can.  Like the smell of someone smoking a pipe, the plodding, the clean-up, and the nails that are part of my work will always remind me of my grandpa. 

2000 - Our last family picture with Grandpa. 
He was 93 and had one more birthday. 

Jump to My Mere Mere: Concrete & Faith