A true do-it-yourselfer
Herbert LaMorder of Oldsmar got little help from the bureaucracy after his house burned down in Hurricane Frances, so he took matters into his own hands.
By NICOLE JOHNSON
Published March 22, 2005
OLDSMAR - This is a story about someone caught between a rock and a hard place who busted his way out with a sledgehammer.
Herbert LaMorder's pale yellow bungalow burned down in September during Hurricane Frances.
All that remained of the house was a jagged, scorched roof, wobbly walls and 20 years' worth of family belongings scattered in the yard.
LaMorder, 61, did what most do when calamity strikes: He called the insurance company. No one called him back.
He heard from the city of Oldsmar, though. It said the remains of the house had to be cleaned up and carted away in 60 days or he'd be fined $50 a day.
LaMorder needed the insurance money to pay for the cleanup. His 26-year-old daughter, Shelagh, programmed Citizens Property Insurance on speed dial on her black Nokia phone and hit the button in traffic jams and in line at the grocery store.
Nothing. Citizens, the state-run insurer, was notoriously slow after the hurricanes, receiving more complaints about service than any other company.
The insurance company didn't call the St. Petersburg Times back, either.
LaMorder went before the Oldsmar City Council and the Code Enforcement Board, asking for more time because he was waiting for the insurance payment.
He got a big blue trash bin out of the effort, but not much else.
Weeks later, still with no insurance check and his 60-day deadline approaching, LaMorder, a Popeye the Sailor-built man with a Yosemite Sam mustache, decided he wouldn't wait any longer.
"Any little boy who had a Tonka truck will tell you he can tear stuff up," LaMorder said one chilly afternoon in his front yard.
So, every afternoon he backed up his black 1957 Chevrolet pickup, tricked out with a makeshift crane, to what was left of the little burnt house on Buckingham Avenue. He unloaded his ragtag crew of tools - a sledgehammer and shovel borrowed from neighbors and a wheelbarrow someone dropped off one night - and got to work.
For 40 years, LaMorder worked in what seemed like every auto body shop from Tampa to Tarpon Springs, until one day an iron rod hanging above him came loose and struck him in the head. The accident left him permanently disabled.
"I forget stupid stuff," LaMorder said, such as the pronunciation of certain words.
With the task of tearing down his house, hard work returned like a lost dog finding its way home.
From late afternoon to sundown, LaMorder cracked loose walls and picked up charred slabs of wood with hands so grime-covered they looked like he was wearing gloves. After filling his wheelbarrow, he dumped the contents into the big blue container parked in the corner of his yard.
Then he waded through the rubble again. The demolition waltz continued until it got too dark for him to see where to swing the sledgehammer.
A burnt white hair dryer hung from a wall as he worked. A few white teacups with little blue flowers lay among the ashes. Five roasted golf balls were scattered about. A charred rifle sat atop an old, rusted washing machine.
With each full wheelbarrow LaMorder emptied into the trash bin, a bit of his trust in the system went with it.
"The suits and ties," LaMorder said, referring to the insurance companies, city officials and just about any institution in which a few hold power over many, "they're strong enough to sit with their ties on and tell me what I need to do, but I'm strong enough to get out here and get this done."
He's one of the last ones left.
The type of man who would rather race in a Camaro he built with parts found at a junkyard than in a brand-new Corvette, even if he could afford one.
The type of man who never threw a tool away in 40 years because his father told him a man should always be able to fix things.
The type of man who would rather break night tearing down his house than ask for help a second time.
"Why should my misery be someone else's?" he said.
Four full trash bins later, the walls were gone and much of the burnt heap had disappeared. Then the insurance check finally arrived. With it LaMorder can hire a demolition crew to finish the job. Maybe he will build again.
Some things, though, can never be restored.
Nicole Johnson can be reached at njohnson@sptimes.com or 727 771-4303.