Tuesday, May 23, 2017
The Rising
We are permitted.
Finally, after nearly two and a half years, our house project has the green light. Layers of regulation have been met, fees have been assessed. Now, things will roll. Or surely shall soon -- my mantra.
Would my ancestors cheer? Most of whom never owned a home. Ownership was not common, historically, at least not amongst common people. I can't even picture how my father's immigrant parents lived, in America, in the early part of the twentieth century. I'm told they were inner-city poor, but how did that look? Did they ever enjoy the comfort of a soft sofa, or an easy chair? Was anything ever easy for them, at all? Or for our presumably peasant forebearers before them?
I never knew those grandparents, and heard little of their lives, much less their hardships. My relationship to them was more historical fact than feeling. Yet where would I be without their fortitude? I wouldn't BE, at all. Not that they did it for me -- but they must have had some sense of the future, to have endured so much and worked so hard, as poor people all did in those times, just to survive. Something kept them going, raising children who grew up and out of the poverty that was all they ever knew.
My car is certainly grander than anything my immigrant grandparents ever owned. They never had a car, of course, but even their best home furnishings were likely less comfortable. And they could not have imagined an afternoon like mine, last week. My six month old smart car decided it was time for a servicing, so tele-contacted the dealer. I just had to drop it off and was escorted home, leaving it for its spa day. A few hours later, I was ushered back, to find it nicely attended and cleaned. Everyone was lovely to me and I drove it home feeling loved and special in my pumpkin coach.
My parents were not poor, and I grew up in a home that they owned, outright. But they were frugal people, who lived simply and saved. They could have spent more on themselves, and their surroundings, but chose practical, reasonable comfort, not luxury. Dad would not have wanted to even hear about upscale finishes; mom would be shocked at the prices. Neither would have allowed such extravagance.
But this is us. This is now.
And we are permitted.
Finally, after nearly two and a half years, our house project has the green light. Layers of regulation have been met, fees have been assessed. Now, things will roll. Or surely shall soon -- my mantra.
Would my ancestors cheer? Most of whom never owned a home. Ownership was not common, historically, at least not amongst common people. I can't even picture how my father's immigrant parents lived, in America, in the early part of the twentieth century. I'm told they were inner-city poor, but how did that look? Did they ever enjoy the comfort of a soft sofa, or an easy chair? Was anything ever easy for them, at all? Or for our presumably peasant forebearers before them?
I never knew those grandparents, and heard little of their lives, much less their hardships. My relationship to them was more historical fact than feeling. Yet where would I be without their fortitude? I wouldn't BE, at all. Not that they did it for me -- but they must have had some sense of the future, to have endured so much and worked so hard, as poor people all did in those times, just to survive. Something kept them going, raising children who grew up and out of the poverty that was all they ever knew.
My car is certainly grander than anything my immigrant grandparents ever owned. They never had a car, of course, but even their best home furnishings were likely less comfortable. And they could not have imagined an afternoon like mine, last week. My six month old smart car decided it was time for a servicing, so tele-contacted the dealer. I just had to drop it off and was escorted home, leaving it for its spa day. A few hours later, I was ushered back, to find it nicely attended and cleaned. Everyone was lovely to me and I drove it home feeling loved and special in my pumpkin coach.
My parents were not poor, and I grew up in a home that they owned, outright. But they were frugal people, who lived simply and saved. They could have spent more on themselves, and their surroundings, but chose practical, reasonable comfort, not luxury. Dad would not have wanted to even hear about upscale finishes; mom would be shocked at the prices. Neither would have allowed such extravagance.
But this is us. This is now.
And we are permitted.
Saturday, April 15, 2017
This Old House
The universe gets you: no secret what you want, or what you don't want. It just can't tell the difference, right? Hence the constant, cosmic push-me, pull-you. The stuff you want held before you, ironically tempered by all your doubts, fears, confusions, uncertainties.
And by stuff, I mean everything. From relationships to possessions. From bootie to booty, as it were. But here, it's all about houses. Homes.
I love my house and home. I've lived here longer than anywhere else, and being here still pleases me deeply, on a daily basis. Yet, when our new house is built, we will leave this place. Someone else will take over and determine its fate. Now, as the universe well knows, the prospect of relinquishing responsibility for this beloved space ties me up in knots.
Will anyone else understand how to care for this old house? Worse -- will, they even care? To some degree, it's a matter of perspective. After all, someone lived here before us. I've spent years changing that person's personal stamp, and if she saw it all now, wouldn't she wonder why? She won't see it though. She moved far away. Whereas, I am moving only two blocks south of here. Which is a blessing, and a curse.
I've lived in many places and I've chosen to not revisit them. It might even be possible to avoid recontact here. If I don't walk by, I won't know if the walkways are swept, or the bushes are pruned; what color they repaint, or whether moss impacts the roof. I won't see contractor trucks and imagine heart-wrenching changes inside.
But what about the trees? Not everyone loves redwoods. They shed, they drop widow-maker branches in storms, they filter sunlight. Newcomers may not appreciate their lush foliage and nuances of color. The storm fearful might not delight at their windswept dance and sway. Sun-worshippers won't welcome their ever cooling shade. More and more of the big old trees get trimmed up like lollipops, or felled completely. You might think that only a tree lover would buy a house positioned directly under towering redwoods -- but you would be wrong.
My heart is at home here. Part of it always will be. Why leave, then?
It's a story for another day.
Sunday, April 9, 2017
Bested!
Do you insist on the best of everything? Perhaps we need to define "best." Is it the highest caliber available in its class, or the highest caliber available in your class? Within your personal parameters, how do you decide what works best, for you?
Isolated decisions may require prioritizing, weighing costs/benefits. A new car, even a home improvement. But how about a whole new house? A gabillion new things, requiring a gazillion discriminating choices. Or not -- you could just let someone else design your lifestyle. Yeah ... nah.
A wise person advised: Select an area upon which to lavish attention; pull back on others. The kitchen versus the laundry room, then. The master suite versus lesser bedrooms, the entry hall versus the stairwell, easy enough. But ... the salon versus the kitchen? There may arise a logic problem. Because if you prefer A over B, and B over C, then you must prefer A over C. Right? Alrighty, then. Do you? Or do you prioritize your kitchen over your bedroom and your bedroom over your salon and your salon over your kitchen? Ahh.
Another wisdom: Select a few features for maximum impact; economize on the rest. Okay! Stone countertops versus high-end appliances. Polished cement versus floor tiles. The fireplace surround versus the ... hmmmm, trouble. What gives? Turns out, it's actually easier to give up an entire feature (dumb waiter) than to choose between integrated sinks and standard porcelain. The fixtures you love -- the ones you like well enough -- or the stuff for which you settle?
You might think affordability would simply decide it all. Think again. Or don't even try, because the
wily human mind will out-justify you. Say you win a thousand house-dedicated dollars! Where will you spend it? More to the point -- how often will you spend it? It would reduce the cost of the custom front door. Or the panel-front fridge. Or ... how about adding an accent wall in the bedroom? And there you blithely go, convinced that windfall has saved you money.
Here's another sneaky mind angle: You get an estimate for integrated sinks, compared to standard sinks. Frugal you then starts checking out standard sinks. Upon which, you come across a hand-hammered copper sink! Which costs more than an integrated sink! Logic be damned.
The best, then? It's the best you can do. Whatever. Being human.
Isolated decisions may require prioritizing, weighing costs/benefits. A new car, even a home improvement. But how about a whole new house? A gabillion new things, requiring a gazillion discriminating choices. Or not -- you could just let someone else design your lifestyle. Yeah ... nah.
A wise person advised: Select an area upon which to lavish attention; pull back on others. The kitchen versus the laundry room, then. The master suite versus lesser bedrooms, the entry hall versus the stairwell, easy enough. But ... the salon versus the kitchen? There may arise a logic problem. Because if you prefer A over B, and B over C, then you must prefer A over C. Right? Alrighty, then. Do you? Or do you prioritize your kitchen over your bedroom and your bedroom over your salon and your salon over your kitchen? Ahh.
Another wisdom: Select a few features for maximum impact; economize on the rest. Okay! Stone countertops versus high-end appliances. Polished cement versus floor tiles. The fireplace surround versus the ... hmmmm, trouble. What gives? Turns out, it's actually easier to give up an entire feature (dumb waiter) than to choose between integrated sinks and standard porcelain. The fixtures you love -- the ones you like well enough -- or the stuff for which you settle?
You might think affordability would simply decide it all. Think again. Or don't even try, because the
wily human mind will out-justify you. Say you win a thousand house-dedicated dollars! Where will you spend it? More to the point -- how often will you spend it? It would reduce the cost of the custom front door. Or the panel-front fridge. Or ... how about adding an accent wall in the bedroom? And there you blithely go, convinced that windfall has saved you money.
Here's another sneaky mind angle: You get an estimate for integrated sinks, compared to standard sinks. Frugal you then starts checking out standard sinks. Upon which, you come across a hand-hammered copper sink! Which costs more than an integrated sink! Logic be damned.
The best, then? It's the best you can do. Whatever. Being human.
Saturday, April 8, 2017
You CAN Take It With You?
You are about to move into a completely new house: A place designed just for you. No one has ever lived there before, there is nothing to change, fix or adjust. Just slip yourself into its pristine perfection.
Oh wait, one question. Do you install your old stuff?
Consider the hours you've spent, deliberately choosing every aspect of this new home. The style of it is no accident. You are not putting up with the taste or decisions of anyone else. Everything, from the sinks to the staircase banisters, you gave your stamp of approval. So it all works together, right?
In other places, over periods of time, you've bought into various elements. That classic English walnut dinning table has graced eight quite different homes, as well as a tiny apartment. Mission pieces gradually inhabited every room. Leather furniture may be timeless, but you have it in four distinct styles -- all of it well used, still utterly serviceable.
To say nothing of the little things. Lamps, candlesticks, vases, picture frames -- even the artwork -- eclectic, to the max. Some of these objects d'art have been with you throughout your life. Much has been added lovingly, and by choice. Each piece holds memories and imparts feelings, however subconsciously, via its mere presence.
Expect your architect to chafe at the thought of all this mish-mash of belongings taking up residence in your carefully designed abode. And thank the stars that shades of Frank Lloyd Wright are not involved, because -- his genius aside -- you probably would not want that control artist designing
every chair, lamp, and rug. Much less your wardrobe.
You, yourself, have been exacting enough. It had to be that fireplace surround, right? Those tiles, in the bathrooms. Rather particular about those switch plates, weren't you? The doorknobs. How could you not!
Here is where the rubber meets the road.
Oh wait, one question. Do you install your old stuff?
Consider the hours you've spent, deliberately choosing every aspect of this new home. The style of it is no accident. You are not putting up with the taste or decisions of anyone else. Everything, from the sinks to the staircase banisters, you gave your stamp of approval. So it all works together, right?
In other places, over periods of time, you've bought into various elements. That classic English walnut dinning table has graced eight quite different homes, as well as a tiny apartment. Mission pieces gradually inhabited every room. Leather furniture may be timeless, but you have it in four distinct styles -- all of it well used, still utterly serviceable.
To say nothing of the little things. Lamps, candlesticks, vases, picture frames -- even the artwork -- eclectic, to the max. Some of these objects d'art have been with you throughout your life. Much has been added lovingly, and by choice. Each piece holds memories and imparts feelings, however subconsciously, via its mere presence.
Expect your architect to chafe at the thought of all this mish-mash of belongings taking up residence in your carefully designed abode. And thank the stars that shades of Frank Lloyd Wright are not involved, because -- his genius aside -- you probably would not want that control artist designing
every chair, lamp, and rug. Much less your wardrobe.
You, yourself, have been exacting enough. It had to be that fireplace surround, right? Those tiles, in the bathrooms. Rather particular about those switch plates, weren't you? The doorknobs. How could you not!
Here is where the rubber meets the road.
Saturday, April 1, 2017
Where In Le Monde?
If you could live anywhere, where would that be?
Don't think about the money, the logistics, the language barriers. Let's preclude castles, mansions, private islands. Just picture a comfortably modest lifestyle, in a parallel universe.
My current reality is in California, USA -- once upon a time, a dream place for many. Maybe not this exact northern locale, but then again who knows? It's a beautiful area, with a fair standard of living. Perhaps, to someone halfway around the world, it even seems exotic. I chose this place, after sojourns in many places, and have now lived here longer than I have in any other. And no place could be greener; yet over the fence, the world holds out so many other, alluring shades of green.
France, for one. Every year, watching Le Tour, a part of me wistfully leaves home. How do they do it? Those French, their ancient villages, seemingly untouched by crass modernity, strung together like uncut diamonds, along unurbanized roadways. Somehow, their daily life sustains without the visually overt presence of mega shopping malls, tires stores, neon signs, billboards, concrete islands covered with auto dealerships, schlocky franchises, or even gas stations. Vibrant forests and lush farmlands surround. Not unreasonable to assume one might actually get about via bicycle, even if over cobbled (picturesque!) roadways. Or horse and wagon. How about a sweet stone cottage with a venerable red tile roof? Little, useful shops, full of basic life stuffs, lodged nearby. Of course, these days, all wired, wirelessly.
What am I missing? Has the age of acceleration -- which clearly holds North America in its tech-tightening, culture-altering clutches -- given rural Europe a leisurely pass? China has been hit hard, on the environmentals, with modernity's growing pains; but maybe New Zealand successfully ducked?
I dream in tenses past. The more a place hints at yesteryears, the more it attracts. I choose to not ponder the difficulties of those times, selecting the bygone world's solidity and slower, stately pace. Its elbow room. Its ineffable promise.
What about new worlds? Frontiers in space. Pioneers, moving forward into lifestyles of the past. Would that be the best of all possible worlds? Or tainted, from the getgo? The innocence lacking. Since the bell cannot be unrung.
Don't think about the money, the logistics, the language barriers. Let's preclude castles, mansions, private islands. Just picture a comfortably modest lifestyle, in a parallel universe.
My current reality is in California, USA -- once upon a time, a dream place for many. Maybe not this exact northern locale, but then again who knows? It's a beautiful area, with a fair standard of living. Perhaps, to someone halfway around the world, it even seems exotic. I chose this place, after sojourns in many places, and have now lived here longer than I have in any other. And no place could be greener; yet over the fence, the world holds out so many other, alluring shades of green.
France, for one. Every year, watching Le Tour, a part of me wistfully leaves home. How do they do it? Those French, their ancient villages, seemingly untouched by crass modernity, strung together like uncut diamonds, along unurbanized roadways. Somehow, their daily life sustains without the visually overt presence of mega shopping malls, tires stores, neon signs, billboards, concrete islands covered with auto dealerships, schlocky franchises, or even gas stations. Vibrant forests and lush farmlands surround. Not unreasonable to assume one might actually get about via bicycle, even if over cobbled (picturesque!) roadways. Or horse and wagon. How about a sweet stone cottage with a venerable red tile roof? Little, useful shops, full of basic life stuffs, lodged nearby. Of course, these days, all wired, wirelessly.
What am I missing? Has the age of acceleration -- which clearly holds North America in its tech-tightening, culture-altering clutches -- given rural Europe a leisurely pass? China has been hit hard, on the environmentals, with modernity's growing pains; but maybe New Zealand successfully ducked?
I dream in tenses past. The more a place hints at yesteryears, the more it attracts. I choose to not ponder the difficulties of those times, selecting the bygone world's solidity and slower, stately pace. Its elbow room. Its ineffable promise.
What about new worlds? Frontiers in space. Pioneers, moving forward into lifestyles of the past. Would that be the best of all possible worlds? Or tainted, from the getgo? The innocence lacking. Since the bell cannot be unrung.
Sunday, March 19, 2017
Too Big, Too Small, Too Much
The Stay/Go Analysis
Option 1 (stay in current house) --
Plus
Personal long history, much loved place.
Appropriate size for two -- compact, comfortable.
Well maintained and attractive.
Nicely upgraded finishes and features.
Well landscaped, well-used yard spaces.
At tail-end of (still useful) mortgage.
Minus
Neighbors too near -- noise, lights, cars, rentals.
Two story -- only half-bath downstairs; no downstairs bedroom.
Stairs to all outside areas.
High maintenance exterior (roof, trees, yards).
Not easy to clean.
Furnace, water heater, appliances are aging out.
Older, less efficient in general.
Requires significant, ongoing, upgrading/replacement.
Option 2 (build proposed house) --
Plus
Designed specifically for us -- our preferences, tastes.
Beautiful lot, located in neighborhood we love.
Pulls (otherwise dormant) high equity out of current house.
Increased space, privacy, viewspace and quiet, natural surroundings.
Most living space on one story.
Higher efficiency and convenience overall.
All new appliances -- all new finishes.
Low maintenance exterior.
Easier to clean.
Desirable neighborhood, where equity should rebuild.
Minus
Go back into debt -- higher mortgage, long term.
Requires landscaping usable yard spaces from scratch.
One less bedroom (although more square footage).
Option 3 (don't build; just move) --
Plus
Costs are more fixed, predictable.
Presume buy/move process may be less stressful overall.
Market slightly up, to sell current house and the (difficult) build property.
Minus
May not be able to sell property for enough, or quickly.
Inventory is limited here -- leave area to find desirable/acceptable availability.
Might not find an existing house/property that meets our requirements.
Unknown costs (likely that any existing house would need improvements).
Costs may not, ultimately, be less than building new.
Requires leaving neighborhood we love.
Settling for Plan B.
Option 1 (stay in current house) --
Plus
Personal long history, much loved place.
Appropriate size for two -- compact, comfortable.
Well maintained and attractive.
Nicely upgraded finishes and features.
Well landscaped, well-used yard spaces.
At tail-end of (still useful) mortgage.
Minus
Neighbors too near -- noise, lights, cars, rentals.
Two story -- only half-bath downstairs; no downstairs bedroom.
Stairs to all outside areas.
High maintenance exterior (roof, trees, yards).
Not easy to clean.
Furnace, water heater, appliances are aging out.
Older, less efficient in general.
Requires significant, ongoing, upgrading/replacement.
Option 2 (build proposed house) --
Plus
Designed specifically for us -- our preferences, tastes.
Beautiful lot, located in neighborhood we love.
Pulls (otherwise dormant) high equity out of current house.
Increased space, privacy, viewspace and quiet, natural surroundings.
Most living space on one story.
Higher efficiency and convenience overall.
All new appliances -- all new finishes.
Low maintenance exterior.
Easier to clean.
Desirable neighborhood, where equity should rebuild.
Minus
Go back into debt -- higher mortgage, long term.
Requires landscaping usable yard spaces from scratch.
One less bedroom (although more square footage).
Option 3 (don't build; just move) --
Plus
Costs are more fixed, predictable.
Presume buy/move process may be less stressful overall.
Market slightly up, to sell current house and the (difficult) build property.
Minus
May not be able to sell property for enough, or quickly.
Inventory is limited here -- leave area to find desirable/acceptable availability.
Might not find an existing house/property that meets our requirements.
Unknown costs (likely that any existing house would need improvements).
Costs may not, ultimately, be less than building new.
Requires leaving neighborhood we love.
Settling for Plan B.
Thursday, March 16, 2017
Chasing Waterfalls
When did the bathrooms multiply? Here in America, where one-per-household used to be the norm.
Whole families once timed individual needs, lined up, allotted the hot water. It mattered who followed whom -- especially if dad enjoyed cigars with his morning occupations. All personal stuff got transported, never left out on a countertop. Scrubbing the tub, after every use, was duty. His and Hers towels kept order.
Shared bedrooms were a thing back when too, and that concept fell first. The thin edge of the wedge, as privacy begat privacy. What if ...? Masterbaths emerged. Dual sinks, personal shelves, no kids allowed. But the kids had their own rooms by now, so why not their own bathrooms? And (come to think of it) why not separate masterbaths? His and Hers, revisited.
When multiple bathrooms became standard, gentrification of these facilities was the next step: the indoor spa experience. Showers offer steam, overhead rain effects, a variety of fixtures and nozzles. Deep tubs have jacuzzi settings. Fireplace? Why not? High-end bathrooms may cost more than your car (whatever your car).
But for the past few decades, it seems the average newly-built American house has featured approximately two and-a-half nicely finished, not overly extravagant bathrooms. A masterbath, a family bath, and a half-bath (meaning it does not have a bath) accessible to common areas.
Would, say, my family of two ever need so many? Well, that's not the point! Most of my life I've inhabited older, one-bathroom houses; my current house has 2.5 and this seems exactly the right number. (I've also lived in numerous abodes with NO bathrooms, and do not recommend this option.)
My first two-bathroom experience was a fluke. We leased a house that had, previously, been an upstairs/downstairs duplex. So, double bathrooms -- also two kitchens, two of everything. For just two people. At first, the downstairs spaces remained auxiliary, but gradually, they served purpose. Bathroom #2 became laundry room, mud room, dog washing room. Fridge #2 definitely proved useful, and when the upstairs dishwasher went on the fritz, I actually hauled loads down to its twin.
Turns out, if you build it, they will come.
Whole families once timed individual needs, lined up, allotted the hot water. It mattered who followed whom -- especially if dad enjoyed cigars with his morning occupations. All personal stuff got transported, never left out on a countertop. Scrubbing the tub, after every use, was duty. His and Hers towels kept order.
Shared bedrooms were a thing back when too, and that concept fell first. The thin edge of the wedge, as privacy begat privacy. What if ...? Masterbaths emerged. Dual sinks, personal shelves, no kids allowed. But the kids had their own rooms by now, so why not their own bathrooms? And (come to think of it) why not separate masterbaths? His and Hers, revisited.
When multiple bathrooms became standard, gentrification of these facilities was the next step: the indoor spa experience. Showers offer steam, overhead rain effects, a variety of fixtures and nozzles. Deep tubs have jacuzzi settings. Fireplace? Why not? High-end bathrooms may cost more than your car (whatever your car).
But for the past few decades, it seems the average newly-built American house has featured approximately two and-a-half nicely finished, not overly extravagant bathrooms. A masterbath, a family bath, and a half-bath (meaning it does not have a bath) accessible to common areas.
Would, say, my family of two ever need so many? Well, that's not the point! Most of my life I've inhabited older, one-bathroom houses; my current house has 2.5 and this seems exactly the right number. (I've also lived in numerous abodes with NO bathrooms, and do not recommend this option.)
My first two-bathroom experience was a fluke. We leased a house that had, previously, been an upstairs/downstairs duplex. So, double bathrooms -- also two kitchens, two of everything. For just two people. At first, the downstairs spaces remained auxiliary, but gradually, they served purpose. Bathroom #2 became laundry room, mud room, dog washing room. Fridge #2 definitely proved useful, and when the upstairs dishwasher went on the fritz, I actually hauled loads down to its twin.
Turns out, if you build it, they will come.
Saturday, March 11, 2017
Rising Water House
Houses go underwater when markets drop. Remodels get out of hand, chewing up equity. The value of the nicest house in any given neighborhood typically regresses to the mean. Real estate is risky business, even when cautiously and reasonably approached.
Why though, would one choose, upfront, to finance the building of a house that will cost more than its estimated market worth? Is the dream of such a house justifiable? Will fulfillment of that dream make one happy, or even happier? Is happiness even part of a rational equation?
Most custom houses just boldly go. The expectation is for the beautifully finished abode to be worth (at least) every penny -- every detail, an investment.
Project into some alternate future: You, selling. Neither real estate agent nor assessor acknowledge your valuation of said fabulous home. Are they blind? See here! You protest, offering thick files, delineating all the many tweaks and overhauls, all the loving care. Fond memories and affection are beyond official scope, but from where you stand, top market price is a starting point.
The Endowment Effect dictates that we value what we have more than others do.
Such a simple concept, and it buggers us all.
Project again: Would you be willing to pay the righteously ambitious asking price (for your beloved house) if you were the buyer?
Well, let's say yes. Done deal! Now, how long will your acquisition high last? Six months from buy-in, will gazing up at the warm, wood ceilings still spark an inner glow? Will those soapstone countertops (with integrated sinks!) brighten every trip into the (awesome) kitchen? Will waking up in the private shelter of redwoods (tucked away from sound or sight of neighbors) invite you deeply into presence and gratitude?
Alrighty then! I hear you.
Why though, would one choose, upfront, to finance the building of a house that will cost more than its estimated market worth? Is the dream of such a house justifiable? Will fulfillment of that dream make one happy, or even happier? Is happiness even part of a rational equation?
Most custom houses just boldly go. The expectation is for the beautifully finished abode to be worth (at least) every penny -- every detail, an investment.
Project into some alternate future: You, selling. Neither real estate agent nor assessor acknowledge your valuation of said fabulous home. Are they blind? See here! You protest, offering thick files, delineating all the many tweaks and overhauls, all the loving care. Fond memories and affection are beyond official scope, but from where you stand, top market price is a starting point.
The Endowment Effect dictates that we value what we have more than others do.
Such a simple concept, and it buggers us all.
Project again: Would you be willing to pay the righteously ambitious asking price (for your beloved house) if you were the buyer?
Well, let's say yes. Done deal! Now, how long will your acquisition high last? Six months from buy-in, will gazing up at the warm, wood ceilings still spark an inner glow? Will those soapstone countertops (with integrated sinks!) brighten every trip into the (awesome) kitchen? Will waking up in the private shelter of redwoods (tucked away from sound or sight of neighbors) invite you deeply into presence and gratitude?
Alrighty then! I hear you.
Monday, March 6, 2017
It's The Money
The prime directive my dad handed down was simple: "Don't touch the capital." I'm not sure if he ever said those exact words, so maybe it's in my DNA -- where it long lay dormant, while I didn't have capital to spend. Anyway, I didn't put money in the impregnable fortress my dad required. It came in; it went out. My main thing, for equilibrium, has just been avoiding debt. Paying bills on time, (often the nick of time) even when that priority dictated deft balancing. Saving also felt imperative, if only a thin margin of safety.
Our house project has slowly been shifting the numbers. So far, each incremental expense -- designing, surveying, engineering, permitting -- has been paid in full, up front; but once the digger shows up, everything escalates. There's no telling how long we'll be paying out, before we can move into (new) house A and sell (current) house B. Should we bite into the sacred capital? There are other ways. Strategies. Leverage. In theory, it all sounds quite do-able. Logical. Smart, even.
The trick is, trust. Trusting myself, that is -- my own ability to suck it up and sleep at night, despite mounting bills and interest payments. Timing is vague; pricing moves indelibly upwards.
How much bald-faced uncertainty are we talking about? We have estimates. They are not iron-clad. Even a fixed bid would be vulnerable to any change order, kicking in at "time & materials." So, don't change anything, right? This should be easy! After two years of planning, I mean.
Oh, but are still some grey areas. More than a few. Lots of decisions/purchases that cannot be made in advance. Choose a refrigerator model in 2014 and it likely won't be available in 2017, much less at the same price. (Buying it 3 years ahead of schedule, also not a great option.)
We are steadfastly treading a lovely looking, if hazy, path that may end abruptly at the edge of a cliff. Over a deep abyss.
Our house project has slowly been shifting the numbers. So far, each incremental expense -- designing, surveying, engineering, permitting -- has been paid in full, up front; but once the digger shows up, everything escalates. There's no telling how long we'll be paying out, before we can move into (new) house A and sell (current) house B. Should we bite into the sacred capital? There are other ways. Strategies. Leverage. In theory, it all sounds quite do-able. Logical. Smart, even.
The trick is, trust. Trusting myself, that is -- my own ability to suck it up and sleep at night, despite mounting bills and interest payments. Timing is vague; pricing moves indelibly upwards.
How much bald-faced uncertainty are we talking about? We have estimates. They are not iron-clad. Even a fixed bid would be vulnerable to any change order, kicking in at "time & materials." So, don't change anything, right? This should be easy! After two years of planning, I mean.
Oh, but are still some grey areas. More than a few. Lots of decisions/purchases that cannot be made in advance. Choose a refrigerator model in 2014 and it likely won't be available in 2017, much less at the same price. (Buying it 3 years ahead of schedule, also not a great option.)
We are steadfastly treading a lovely looking, if hazy, path that may end abruptly at the edge of a cliff. Over a deep abyss.
Friday, March 3, 2017
Real Estate
A forested stretch of land (somewhat bigger than a football field) has long remained wild, a survivor within city limits. Two decades of home builders gradually developed the surrounding neighborhood -- and the neighbors got used to that last bushy bit of hillside property being left that way. "I figured it was, like, our park," one commented. Not intentionally sly, just candid. Because it isn't a park. It is where our house will be.
For any undeveloped land, such an undertaking demands extraordinary consideration. Although ours is not extra virgin (having been logged, long ago) this place will be forever changed by our plans. Even though most of the property is designated natural area and won't appear any different, at one end of the lot some trees will come down, a house will be inserted. Disrupted creatures will move on.
Why do it? Aren't there enough houses? Maybe not what we had in mind, but adoptable -- why not rescue one of them? It's a fair question.
Where I grew up, there was an old estate nearby. I don't know acreage, but it was quite a spread -- big enough to be developed into a subdivision of fifteen-or-so large homes on spacious lots. Which amounted to a major loss for young me, because that land was my world apart. Forbidden territory (accessed through a hole in the fence) that once inside, unfolded magically.
An expansive, central meadow fanned out into memorable niches. One prominent outcropping (AKA: Starved Rock) was a gathering spot for games. Behind it, a sticky stand of pine trees was the forest. In a far corner, an old log cabin still stood -- the original estate dwelling -- tucked away from the mansion that once housed the estate owners. Their mansion had eventually become a convent; a statue of Mary guarded its neglected garden. There was a fort, a big hole really, hidden by tall meadow grass, outfitted with a ladder, some salvaged pots, detritus. Just once, I ventured over a shaded, side embankment, to discover a tiny valley, spectacularly covered in wild, blooming Black-Eyed Susans.
And then it was all gone.
Cleared and leveled, paved, it then became the series of construction sites that were my next fascination. Gradually, those homes were finished, families moved into them, and all traces of the land's original nature were erased. The Estate Homes (so christened) may still be there. Perhaps some have been razed and replaced with McMansions and tinier yards, but residences, for sure, because there are no "vacant lots" in that locale today.
These days, build-able, undeveloped land is harder to find anywhere.
So precious.
Irreplaceable.
For any undeveloped land, such an undertaking demands extraordinary consideration. Although ours is not extra virgin (having been logged, long ago) this place will be forever changed by our plans. Even though most of the property is designated natural area and won't appear any different, at one end of the lot some trees will come down, a house will be inserted. Disrupted creatures will move on.
Why do it? Aren't there enough houses? Maybe not what we had in mind, but adoptable -- why not rescue one of them? It's a fair question.
Where I grew up, there was an old estate nearby. I don't know acreage, but it was quite a spread -- big enough to be developed into a subdivision of fifteen-or-so large homes on spacious lots. Which amounted to a major loss for young me, because that land was my world apart. Forbidden territory (accessed through a hole in the fence) that once inside, unfolded magically.
An expansive, central meadow fanned out into memorable niches. One prominent outcropping (AKA: Starved Rock) was a gathering spot for games. Behind it, a sticky stand of pine trees was the forest. In a far corner, an old log cabin still stood -- the original estate dwelling -- tucked away from the mansion that once housed the estate owners. Their mansion had eventually become a convent; a statue of Mary guarded its neglected garden. There was a fort, a big hole really, hidden by tall meadow grass, outfitted with a ladder, some salvaged pots, detritus. Just once, I ventured over a shaded, side embankment, to discover a tiny valley, spectacularly covered in wild, blooming Black-Eyed Susans.
And then it was all gone.
Cleared and leveled, paved, it then became the series of construction sites that were my next fascination. Gradually, those homes were finished, families moved into them, and all traces of the land's original nature were erased. The Estate Homes (so christened) may still be there. Perhaps some have been razed and replaced with McMansions and tinier yards, but residences, for sure, because there are no "vacant lots" in that locale today.
These days, build-able, undeveloped land is harder to find anywhere.
So precious.
Irreplaceable.
Sunday, February 26, 2017
Get With The Program
Going long stretches without something can effectively distill its value. Plumbing, electricity, gas, for example -- having experienced lifestyles without those services, utility bills never seem as outrageous to me as they might. Cost/Benefit = Easy. Plumbing and hot water being two of my most favorite things. How about a gas fireplace and a hottub? Yup, yup, yup. Not to slight ovens and fridges, furnaces and lighting. Luxurious conveniences all; worth every cent. And these days, best add wifi to the list.
Imagine life without internet connection. In one recent study, with subjects asked to do without one or the other for a year, smartphones beat out almost every contender -- eating out, vacations, sex. (Bathing? Hmm...) Shockingly, even pets were expendable. As technology exponentially escalates, what remains sacred? What becomes indispensable?
Exactly just how smart do I want my home to get? My car is already way, way smarter than necessary for road ranging requirements ... or so it seems, today. Expectations do alter insidiously, as one gets used to navigation, programmed controls and heated steering wheels.
But it never occurred to me that adjusting a thermostat or flipping a light switch, by hand, would ever seem a chore. What, go through the whole house, preforming these rote operations one at a time? Yeah, that. Old school! There's an app. Like it or not. All the comforts of home are now programmable. I could be in New Zealand and turn off my American oven (quite handy, if I'd forgotten). Conversely, given a hacker, virus or a glitch, my house could throw a party without me.
The options are out there -- a long, long way from clapping hands to turn off a bedside lamp.
Conceivably, with just one touch on the iPhone ... window shades open, music airs, lights come on, temperature adjusts, seats warm, the central vac sucks away any intrusive dust, the fridge calls in a grocery/deli order, and the bed covers turn down, seductively. (Will the bathroom clean itself? Because that ...)
Uhhh, WAIT. What if the optic reader is on the fritz? What if I forget my default password? Is manual override an option? Provided I recall how to manually accomplish anything. Such skill may burrow back deep into the gray matter that archives arithmetic without a calculator. And penmanship.
(Now, about those touch pads. Fingertips? What about those headjacks we've been promised? Come ON, technology.)
Imagine life without internet connection. In one recent study, with subjects asked to do without one or the other for a year, smartphones beat out almost every contender -- eating out, vacations, sex. (Bathing? Hmm...) Shockingly, even pets were expendable. As technology exponentially escalates, what remains sacred? What becomes indispensable?
Exactly just how smart do I want my home to get? My car is already way, way smarter than necessary for road ranging requirements ... or so it seems, today. Expectations do alter insidiously, as one gets used to navigation, programmed controls and heated steering wheels.
But it never occurred to me that adjusting a thermostat or flipping a light switch, by hand, would ever seem a chore. What, go through the whole house, preforming these rote operations one at a time? Yeah, that. Old school! There's an app. Like it or not. All the comforts of home are now programmable. I could be in New Zealand and turn off my American oven (quite handy, if I'd forgotten). Conversely, given a hacker, virus or a glitch, my house could throw a party without me.
The options are out there -- a long, long way from clapping hands to turn off a bedside lamp.
Conceivably, with just one touch on the iPhone ... window shades open, music airs, lights come on, temperature adjusts, seats warm, the central vac sucks away any intrusive dust, the fridge calls in a grocery/deli order, and the bed covers turn down, seductively. (Will the bathroom clean itself? Because that ...)
Uhhh, WAIT. What if the optic reader is on the fritz? What if I forget my default password? Is manual override an option? Provided I recall how to manually accomplish anything. Such skill may burrow back deep into the gray matter that archives arithmetic without a calculator. And penmanship.
(Now, about those touch pads. Fingertips? What about those headjacks we've been promised? Come ON, technology.)
Saturday, February 25, 2017
Pau House
The following never happened. Except that it did -- in the dreamtime, which is part of our process, no? Why not? Remembered dreams are actual memories. They just happened only to the dreamer. Someday, you may recall a dream more vividly than events of shared history. Really! Such is life.
So there we were, house-hunting with Pau. There was a group of us, but he was the only recognizable other. The house we entered seemed normal at first, and lovely, despite the front door opening into a bedroom. Then we looked up: The high, exposed rafters were covered with cobwebs, and Pau -- who was so tall, his head kept brushing into webs -- hated spiders. Who shows such a neglected home for sale? An expensive one too (which might be why he was there, after all.) It'll clean up fine, we tried to assure him. Then stumbled into the kitchen (one of the kitchens) where the owners were in the process of removing the countertops, to keep for themselves. Well! This wasn't promising.
Feeling as disgruntled as Pau, about to leave, I caught a brilliant glimpse of outside through a window. Shoreline, trees, flowers -- I had to investigate, and wandered out into a wonderland. Exotic birds everywhere, in a sort of aviary, replete with expansive stone pools and lush greenery. The owner followed, explaining he was a fly fisherman and kept the little colorful birds for their feathers. It was a lot of work, he wanted out of it, had no intention of taking that hungry bunch with him. Including the dogs, who were gadding about, playing in the many pools. What would happen to them all? I cried and pleaded, wanting Pau to buy the place and save the animals.
We all walked into another kitchen -- this one intact and beautifully appointed. White marble countertops, loaded with enticing foods, awaited. We all wanted that food. Which seemed to hinge upon buying the house. Would we?
So there we were, house-hunting with Pau. There was a group of us, but he was the only recognizable other. The house we entered seemed normal at first, and lovely, despite the front door opening into a bedroom. Then we looked up: The high, exposed rafters were covered with cobwebs, and Pau -- who was so tall, his head kept brushing into webs -- hated spiders. Who shows such a neglected home for sale? An expensive one too (which might be why he was there, after all.) It'll clean up fine, we tried to assure him. Then stumbled into the kitchen (one of the kitchens) where the owners were in the process of removing the countertops, to keep for themselves. Well! This wasn't promising.
Feeling as disgruntled as Pau, about to leave, I caught a brilliant glimpse of outside through a window. Shoreline, trees, flowers -- I had to investigate, and wandered out into a wonderland. Exotic birds everywhere, in a sort of aviary, replete with expansive stone pools and lush greenery. The owner followed, explaining he was a fly fisherman and kept the little colorful birds for their feathers. It was a lot of work, he wanted out of it, had no intention of taking that hungry bunch with him. Including the dogs, who were gadding about, playing in the many pools. What would happen to them all? I cried and pleaded, wanting Pau to buy the place and save the animals.
We all walked into another kitchen -- this one intact and beautifully appointed. White marble countertops, loaded with enticing foods, awaited. We all wanted that food. Which seemed to hinge upon buying the house. Would we?
Friday, February 24, 2017
Where The Heart Is
I lived in a cave. Carved out in Minoan times, it was one of many set into a stone embankment, edging a secluded, aqua, horseshoe bay. One could literally walk outside and jump into the Mediterranean (if one didn't mind a rough-edged two-story drop). Mine was a penthouse -- two spacious chambers, deep sleeping ledges. The original tenants had been entombed there, but all the cave-tombs had been emptied, ages before my arrival. Neighboring caves housed a diverse mix of waysided travelers, and at that time, no one seemed to care that we sojourned in this ancient place. A quite basic lifestyle, yet rather luxurious as encampments go: a well nearby, the sea for bathing, mild to hot climate, and a tiny fishing village a stone's throw away. Had it not been for visa requirements, would I ever have left?
I lived on a kibbutz. As itinerant labor, not a member, but I had my place and lived by community rules. We all wore issued clothing, worked shifts on rotating assignments, ate in the dining hall. Members stayed aloof; casual camaraderie united the outsiders, our long days shored up by evenings spent in curious company. My spartan room had just a cot, but it opened out onto an overgrown garden where peacocks roamed. A white owl visited my open windowsill.
I lived in a log house. Log cabins had been a childhood dream, but this was a two-story house; two rooms downstairs, four above, and a dug-out root cellar below. The logs had been squared and mortared, with the corners neatly joined, in the style of its day -- early twentieth century. Two iron stoves heated it (winters were seriously cold) which required huge stacks of firewood, piled in an adjoining lean-to. No electricity or plumbing: A clear-water well was just downhill; an outhouse, just
far enough away in the opposite direction. Daily life there was chore-filled and demanding. Beautiful, serene; ultimately unsustainable
I lived in a rooming house. An old frame Victorian, it housed five unrelated, previously unacquainted renters -- one of whom lived in the attic -- and we all shared one bathroom, plus a central commode in a closet. Whoever owned the place lived elsewhere. My room was downstairs and had a lovely, drafty little fireplace, as well as a sort of kitchen, built into another former closet. The house wiring was ancient, we all had hotplates, the couple above me smoked and drank continuously, and I burned driftwood in that fireplace without a screen. Onetime, I locked myself out and climbed in through the kitchen window -- easy. Anyone could have done it.
I lived in my truck. Never considered myself homeless, just mobile, in my little wooden home, built on the back of an old Chevy -- basic shelter, not fitted out as a proper camper. It was nonetheless cozy, and enabled me to tour around, searching for the next place to sojourn for a spell. Would not have worked near so well without the kindness of strangers, their kitchens and facilities.
I lived in a garage. Actually, a garage under construction -- slab floor, four walls, a few windows, a roof. No door, just a plywood covering. Uninsulated, heated via wood stove (and lots of chopping). No electricity or plumbing either; paid the neighbors for not-so-convenient facilities access. But it was free, and (at first) I imagined it had possibilities, plus being on such a private, wooded lot. A tough place to work from though. Would it ever be completed? Not during my tenure.
I lived with friends. Paid my share, but remained adjunct. Of all the places I've made into homes, this arrangement never felt homelike, despite being invited and welcome.
I lived in a tepee. Well, my beloved did, when we first met. So we spent much of our first summer together in that shelter he called home. Perched on a hillside overlooking a rural residential valley, it
contrasted with our mundane daily activities -- his in an office, mine as a student. Access ran through a field where a young, lonely bull awaited. An owl sometimes sat on the poles, night-hunting. When fall turned too chilly, we folded it up. And that was that.
I lived on a kibbutz. As itinerant labor, not a member, but I had my place and lived by community rules. We all wore issued clothing, worked shifts on rotating assignments, ate in the dining hall. Members stayed aloof; casual camaraderie united the outsiders, our long days shored up by evenings spent in curious company. My spartan room had just a cot, but it opened out onto an overgrown garden where peacocks roamed. A white owl visited my open windowsill.
I lived in a log house. Log cabins had been a childhood dream, but this was a two-story house; two rooms downstairs, four above, and a dug-out root cellar below. The logs had been squared and mortared, with the corners neatly joined, in the style of its day -- early twentieth century. Two iron stoves heated it (winters were seriously cold) which required huge stacks of firewood, piled in an adjoining lean-to. No electricity or plumbing: A clear-water well was just downhill; an outhouse, just
far enough away in the opposite direction. Daily life there was chore-filled and demanding. Beautiful, serene; ultimately unsustainable
I lived in a rooming house. An old frame Victorian, it housed five unrelated, previously unacquainted renters -- one of whom lived in the attic -- and we all shared one bathroom, plus a central commode in a closet. Whoever owned the place lived elsewhere. My room was downstairs and had a lovely, drafty little fireplace, as well as a sort of kitchen, built into another former closet. The house wiring was ancient, we all had hotplates, the couple above me smoked and drank continuously, and I burned driftwood in that fireplace without a screen. Onetime, I locked myself out and climbed in through the kitchen window -- easy. Anyone could have done it.
I lived in my truck. Never considered myself homeless, just mobile, in my little wooden home, built on the back of an old Chevy -- basic shelter, not fitted out as a proper camper. It was nonetheless cozy, and enabled me to tour around, searching for the next place to sojourn for a spell. Would not have worked near so well without the kindness of strangers, their kitchens and facilities.
I lived in a garage. Actually, a garage under construction -- slab floor, four walls, a few windows, a roof. No door, just a plywood covering. Uninsulated, heated via wood stove (and lots of chopping). No electricity or plumbing either; paid the neighbors for not-so-convenient facilities access. But it was free, and (at first) I imagined it had possibilities, plus being on such a private, wooded lot. A tough place to work from though. Would it ever be completed? Not during my tenure.
I lived with friends. Paid my share, but remained adjunct. Of all the places I've made into homes, this arrangement never felt homelike, despite being invited and welcome.
I lived in a tepee. Well, my beloved did, when we first met. So we spent much of our first summer together in that shelter he called home. Perched on a hillside overlooking a rural residential valley, it
contrasted with our mundane daily activities -- his in an office, mine as a student. Access ran through a field where a young, lonely bull awaited. An owl sometimes sat on the poles, night-hunting. When fall turned too chilly, we folded it up. And that was that.
Tuesday, February 21, 2017
Neo Classic
Roman houses speak to me. The ancient ones -- oriented inwards, rooms open and peristyled around lush courtyard gardens. From the street, only a discrete door, tucked into plain, windowless walls, hinted at comforts within: A world apart. Romans weren't alone in this -- centric focus is common among Japanese and Middle-Eastern dwelling styles -- but the classic Roman example resonates most.
It's the opposite of traditional American neighborhood ambiance, where stylish home entries face each other invitingly, picture windows frame interior glimpses, front porches offer social venues, and landscaped front yards reflect local character. A friendly concept ... just so yesteryear.
American development currently favors the snouthouse, with its anonymous, garage-door facade. Homes still ostensibly open out, streetward, but entries are tucked aside, porches (decks now) have moved to the backyard, and any surrounding landscaping is kept minimal. A Roman house wannabe.
It's the opposite of traditional American neighborhood ambiance, where stylish home entries face each other invitingly, picture windows frame interior glimpses, front porches offer social venues, and landscaped front yards reflect local character. A friendly concept ... just so yesteryear.
American development currently favors the snouthouse, with its anonymous, garage-door facade. Homes still ostensibly open out, streetward, but entries are tucked aside, porches (decks now) have moved to the backyard, and any surrounding landscaping is kept minimal. A Roman house wannabe.
Thursday, February 16, 2017
Home Erased
Some years back, in the stately old town where I grew up, residential lots became more valuable than the houses built upon them, despite that many had been beloved homes for a century. Soon, flush buyers leveled them, along with the mature trees and landscaping that defined their spaces. After all, the lots were expansive, and could accommodate much larger, current home styles. And solid as the old homes were, updating their structural components required major overhauls. To say nothing of remodeling them into alignment with 21st century lifestyles.
The first house I knew had been built by my grandfather and his brother. How much they physically contributed, I don't know. Had an architect been involved? Or just stalwart builders, armed with an idea? It had street appeal -- red bricked, tile-roofed, Dutch colonial accented, sheltered by tall elm trees. Inside, it was a twist of off-sized rooms, upstairs and down, where function seemed an afterthought. All my life, my mother talked of revamping it. When she finally sold it, her trusting belief was in an appreciative new owner doing just that.
Now, a very large, lush house inhabits the old homesite. A McMansion, as its ilk is known. I have not seen it; memories are like sleeping dogs, happiest left undisturbed. I live far away from it, and taking it on was never an option. But I'd had my own ideas for that house. Ideas that morphed many times, from childhood on. If ten-year-old designing me had prevailed, would current me still have dreams of converting the attic?
The first house I knew had been built by my grandfather and his brother. How much they physically contributed, I don't know. Had an architect been involved? Or just stalwart builders, armed with an idea? It had street appeal -- red bricked, tile-roofed, Dutch colonial accented, sheltered by tall elm trees. Inside, it was a twist of off-sized rooms, upstairs and down, where function seemed an afterthought. All my life, my mother talked of revamping it. When she finally sold it, her trusting belief was in an appreciative new owner doing just that.
Now, a very large, lush house inhabits the old homesite. A McMansion, as its ilk is known. I have not seen it; memories are like sleeping dogs, happiest left undisturbed. I live far away from it, and taking it on was never an option. But I'd had my own ideas for that house. Ideas that morphed many times, from childhood on. If ten-year-old designing me had prevailed, would current me still have dreams of converting the attic?
Open House
A neighbor's house recently went up for sale. He'd spent months emptying it, working on it, cleaning it, and since I've never been inside, I'm curious. There are, of course, glam photos posted on the realtor's website, but photos don't reveal workmanship details -- what they do show seems odd, considering all that pre-sale prep work: Nothing updated. Styles, appliances, finishes and fixtures, common to the nineties when that house was built, remain. What had he been doing in there? Well, the deck is new. Pretty, too. But ... pine? Why, in our very damp and shaded locale, replace an entire deck in pine?
Open Houses (especially one up just your own street) offer intriguing opportunities. So what if you're not on the market? Take a glimpse of other worlds, parallel universes. People fancy the strangest things, not just decorating and remodeling, but designing and building in the first place. Supposed refinements often reflect unfathomable taste. And while some such mishaps are fixable, they are rarely negotiable. What, you don't love the master addition? The unique tilework? The exotic countertops? Well, it's all in the asking price. So add the annoyingly unjustifiable expense of undoing/redoing a recent upgrade to your calculations.
Always fun to look though.
Before deciding to build our next home from scratch, we considered buying an existing house -- ideally, one that was finished to our liking and move-in ready. But there's always something (no matter how beyond-affordable the place) that just has to go, must change, seems outlandish, is unacceptable. And we'd been there and done that: bought a house that was move-in ready, but not finished to our taste. So every year, we changed something, living through the process. Until it was all us. Will the next owner be its undoing?
Open Houses (especially one up just your own street) offer intriguing opportunities. So what if you're not on the market? Take a glimpse of other worlds, parallel universes. People fancy the strangest things, not just decorating and remodeling, but designing and building in the first place. Supposed refinements often reflect unfathomable taste. And while some such mishaps are fixable, they are rarely negotiable. What, you don't love the master addition? The unique tilework? The exotic countertops? Well, it's all in the asking price. So add the annoyingly unjustifiable expense of undoing/redoing a recent upgrade to your calculations.
Always fun to look though.
Before deciding to build our next home from scratch, we considered buying an existing house -- ideally, one that was finished to our liking and move-in ready. But there's always something (no matter how beyond-affordable the place) that just has to go, must change, seems outlandish, is unacceptable. And we'd been there and done that: bought a house that was move-in ready, but not finished to our taste. So every year, we changed something, living through the process. Until it was all us. Will the next owner be its undoing?
Thursday, February 9, 2017
Sticks & Bones
The best playgrounds, for a kid like me, were construction sites. Some new house was always going up in our neighborhood, and builders went home early, leaving everything open, available, inviting. Scaffolding to climb, planks to walk, mountains of dirt, tools left out. Of course playing in these places was verboten; hence, irresistible.
The best was after the framing, but before finished walls. With house bones revealed, like an X-ray, my imagination soared -- an airy skeleton of framing sticks suggested convoluted mansions of endless possibility. Upstairs rooms, accessible only via ladders, hinted secrets; entire first floors remained open, unassigned. But once the envelope was sealed, it was all over.
Which might explain my youthful fascination with the insides of people's houses. I had it so bad, my mom hesitated to take me anywhere, knowing I'd take off, exploring. Bathrooms, especially, were an obsession -- however many there were, I wanted in. Tolerable curiosity, in a little kid (who would soon outgrow it, surely?)
It struck (a slightly older) me, while sitting in an (unwitting) neighbor's lovely rose-covered gazebo, that most of the houses on our street were empty all day. And in that town, lots of people didn't bother to lock their doors. What if I just slipped inside? After all, some of those houses were old playmates -- I'd hung from their rafters. I could re-check them out, hang out, dream anew. Wouldn't hurt a thing. Might even do the dishes, like a helpful brownie -- leave only a mystery!
The best was after the framing, but before finished walls. With house bones revealed, like an X-ray, my imagination soared -- an airy skeleton of framing sticks suggested convoluted mansions of endless possibility. Upstairs rooms, accessible only via ladders, hinted secrets; entire first floors remained open, unassigned. But once the envelope was sealed, it was all over.
Which might explain my youthful fascination with the insides of people's houses. I had it so bad, my mom hesitated to take me anywhere, knowing I'd take off, exploring. Bathrooms, especially, were an obsession -- however many there were, I wanted in. Tolerable curiosity, in a little kid (who would soon outgrow it, surely?)
It struck (a slightly older) me, while sitting in an (unwitting) neighbor's lovely rose-covered gazebo, that most of the houses on our street were empty all day. And in that town, lots of people didn't bother to lock their doors. What if I just slipped inside? After all, some of those houses were old playmates -- I'd hung from their rafters. I could re-check them out, hang out, dream anew. Wouldn't hurt a thing. Might even do the dishes, like a helpful brownie -- leave only a mystery!
Monday, February 6, 2017
New Eyes
I walk by our property almost every day. As I have for nearly 20 years, although for most of that time it was not ours.
From the roadside, it is a dense tangle of tall redwood trees, a few alders, ferns, some bush. Even the steep hillside pitch of it isn't obvious, as it winds around a long bend. Neighboring homes have long been above, below and across the road, so it always seemed natural that it was undeveloped -- more like a little wild park. Deer and ravens frequented; perhaps squirrels, skunks, foxes and such burrowed therein. A cougar? Might visit. Bears, definitely.
Once that land became ours, I took to visiting from time to time. The feeling is quite different from within: Stillness. Its redwood canopy filters light to dusky levels, and road noise is minimal. More climbing/scrambling than walking is required. One time, a hoard of trash had been dragged into the hollow -- a bear's private place. It felt good to clean up his leftovers, to take care, albeit I rather hoped he'd be back.
Befriending the trees is a bit bittersweet. Some of them must be sacrificed, to allow space for our house. Selectively though, not cleared. Most of these 1.1 acres will remain untouched. After all, these trees have been here for a very long time. They are second growth, still small by redwood standards, yet hearty and healthy. Others already call them home, no doubt.
Sunday, February 5, 2017
While You Were Sleeping ...
"This will be my dream house!"
Such newbie home builder exuberance is expected.
But ... really?
Let's explore this concept. In dreams, houses tend to morph, mysteriously. Walls dissolve, rooms expand, twisting hallways reveal a whole new wing, your bedroom opens right into a shopping mall. The place you first enter unfolds exponentially, full of recognition and surprise, loaded with meaning,
a sense of homecoming. Or an eerie foreboding.
And yes, your home building experience will be all of this.
But let us be clear: Your "dream" home is not a static vision. Even if you designed it in first grade and immortalized it by scrapbook. The purple palace you envisioned as a child probably didn't specify bathroom finishes, did it? So there you go -- change order #1.
Even if your architect has the scrapbook, brace yourself for how he interprets old wishes. (Architects being artists, not transcribers. Envisioners, not enablers. Don't Forget.) And there it is. Different. Do you like it? Just give it a chance.
You. Will. Be. Amazed. At how your tastes have changed! And keep changing! Because, baby, you have opened your eyes: And. You. Have. Options.
An elevator? Definitely. (This is your forever home, be proactive.) Colors, textures ... is it god, or the devil, in charge of the details? Either way, this is going to take a while. Ahh, Light fixtures -- welcome to dream houzzzz hell, bwaaaahaha. And by the way, all those special order switch-plates are going back; what were you thinking?
Saturday, February 4, 2017
Catch A Builder
Choosing a builder is trickier than choosing an architect. Builders range within a proliferation of skills, and construction companies come in various sizes and categories. For residential, big companies may handle entire subdivisions, whereas a small crew might only work individual, custom homes. Even one lone general can wrangle troops of sub-contractors. While some such builders have worked up from being on construction crews, to managing crews, to spec house projects of their own, others skip a lot of that and get right to it.
Well, yours is just one house. Not high end, but custom, so that narrows the field. The depth of the professional pool in your area is a significant factor. Availability and interest may weigh-in heaviest of all. Now, with your bait cast, let's say a few bite:
You might prefer to think of it as a courtship -- your rose to bestow. But initial, speculative interest easily unhooks, depending on timelines, budgets, scope of project, even chemistry. You have an architect, remember? So builder selection is a team-building exercise. Considerations abound.
Reputation gets a lot of play, but which word-of-mouth sources are reliable? (Consider the comments on social media -- plenty of cheering, but a crap shoot of credibility.) Even testimony from a trusted friend might hinge on values different from your own. Websites are handy, and photos therein may dazzle, just be aware that visual distance obscures details. You need first person experience.
Touring a builder's work is actually the fun part )) Best of all, is work in progress, where the underbelly still shows -- an opportunity to evaluate creativity and problem solving skills. There will
be stories too, often insightful, revealing attitudes, expectations, communication styles.
So you find your guy. The team gels. Time passes ...
And for one reason or another, your guy bails.
It isn't personal. The builder is an ethereal creature. Attracting one is tricky, pulling him in, an endeavor. Plenty of fish in the sea, right? Or ... not.
Well, yours is just one house. Not high end, but custom, so that narrows the field. The depth of the professional pool in your area is a significant factor. Availability and interest may weigh-in heaviest of all. Now, with your bait cast, let's say a few bite:
You might prefer to think of it as a courtship -- your rose to bestow. But initial, speculative interest easily unhooks, depending on timelines, budgets, scope of project, even chemistry. You have an architect, remember? So builder selection is a team-building exercise. Considerations abound.
Reputation gets a lot of play, but which word-of-mouth sources are reliable? (Consider the comments on social media -- plenty of cheering, but a crap shoot of credibility.) Even testimony from a trusted friend might hinge on values different from your own. Websites are handy, and photos therein may dazzle, just be aware that visual distance obscures details. You need first person experience.
Touring a builder's work is actually the fun part )) Best of all, is work in progress, where the underbelly still shows -- an opportunity to evaluate creativity and problem solving skills. There will
be stories too, often insightful, revealing attitudes, expectations, communication styles.
So you find your guy. The team gels. Time passes ...
And for one reason or another, your guy bails.
It isn't personal. The builder is an ethereal creature. Attracting one is tricky, pulling him in, an endeavor. Plenty of fish in the sea, right? Or ... not.
Friday, February 3, 2017
Dream On
So you want to design a house.
You can almost see it, but can't quite draw it out. Perhaps a sketch artist could capture it, translating your vague impressions, pulling details together. You, being the witness to inspirations passed.
An architect, then? Out of your league? There are options -- plans can be purchased, even modified. Intrepid DIYers might just go forth. The simplicity of huts and cabins appeals, but you are no pioneer, and any development on your land is governed, regulated. It's a tricky site, requiring adept vision and skill. Yes then: An architect.
How does this work? You have ideas, and a budget. Then the pro would just do the math, right? A simple formula! Let that be your epitaph, and bury such assumption ))
You can almost see it, but can't quite draw it out. Perhaps a sketch artist could capture it, translating your vague impressions, pulling details together. You, being the witness to inspirations passed.
An architect, then? Out of your league? There are options -- plans can be purchased, even modified. Intrepid DIYers might just go forth. The simplicity of huts and cabins appeals, but you are no pioneer, and any development on your land is governed, regulated. It's a tricky site, requiring adept vision and skill. Yes then: An architect.
How does this work? You have ideas, and a budget. Then the pro would just do the math, right? A simple formula! Let that be your epitaph, and bury such assumption ))
Wednesday, February 1, 2017
Journey Into Home
In December 2014, we bought a property. True a story opener as any -- a handy marker for a convoluted unfolding process, without a precise inception, and perhaps without an end. Accordingly, this written record will not proceed linearly. Chronological precision doesn't much matter. Now, all points lead home.
It was a stretch of land we'd passed by regularly, for nearly two decades. Just two blocks from where we lived, halfway up a forested hillside, in a neighborhood that had gradually settled all around it -- the only remaining undeveloped lot. An acre-plus of trees and slope, perhaps unbuildable? It had, after all, been owned before us. Others had envisioned home there; whereas, we had not seen through the trees in all those years. Until one early autumn day, it seemed quite clear: The land had been waiting for us.
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