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?
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