House Party

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.)

All Aflutter

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?

Starter Home

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.

When In Rome

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.

As It Was

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?

For The Birds

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?

Hanging From The Rafters

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!

Stillness Speaking

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.

HouZzzzzzzzzz

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?

Hammerheads Preferred

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.

R.I.P.

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 ))

The Land Awaits

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.