House Charming
I have never been a person who had "dream house" fantasies. In the many apartments and houses where I've lived over the years, both before and with Barry, I've always wanted--and created--coziness and charm and a sense of comfort, but I never cared if the particular dwelling was perfect. In Vancouver, I lived in an apartment above a TV repair shop, next to neighbor loggers; in Boston's historic North End, in an "unremodeled" walk-up that at the time (late 70s) still had no bath or shower (I resorted to city-subsidized community showers, available from 7 a.m. to 7 p.m., down the street, for a small fee). The last home Barry and I owned before Guanajuato, a Spanish-style house on Margarita Avenue in Palo Alto, had ugly stucco ceilings. Although I wasn't thrilled with them, I didn't think it was worth the expense to redo the ceilings. I was happy enough.
Barry and I joke about suffering from "Town Charming," the fantasy that some other town, far away in another state or country, will satisfy our every longing and dissipate our every problem. (Over the years, Boulder, Eugene, and Santa Fe were among our Town Charming candidates). I've also had Job Charming from time to time. And Body Charming! That one followed me around for years, er, decades. But House Charming, I never caught. A relief, I always thought; no room for envy, a state for which I'm easily disposed.
But then came Guanajuato and the only major remodel we have ever faced, and until recently (like, yesterday) I was, daily, catching the House Charming disease in ever greater increments.
"You really should go see other houses that David has done," we've been told. "The owners are always happy to show off their home and his architectural creativity." And I did see one. But when I suggested to Barry that we visit others, he balked. "We already have too many choices," he said. "We'll just start wishing we had done things differently, or feeling envious. We'll have more arguments." We had only just resolved an argument about what color to paint the Sky Room, our room on the roof, an argument that simmered and bubbled for days.
Our argument surprised me. I once read a story about a woman who fell in love with a man who said to her, over their first dinner together, "All colors make me happy, even gray." I would fall in love hearing that line, too, I thought. I love color. All colors.
Or do I? When it came to the Sky Room, I had no idea how stubborn and partisan I could be about the "right" color, the "only" color. It took multiple visits from David, bringing multiple sets of sample swabs, before we finally settled on a shade of green we could both live with. And here we've lived in a funky apartment in Eureka, California, with rooms a vague, uninspired off-white, that after six years we still haven't even thought about painting.
When it came to painting the outside walls of the Sky Room, we decided to ask David-the-mediator to choose the exterior color. He came up with periwinkle blue, the color of a house up the street. I had a suspicious feeling rumbling around me that he picked that shade because Barry said he liked it. "No, it was YOU who recommended it to David," Barry said when I told him.
"It's crazy," I said to Barry a couple of evenings ago as we sat on our new terrace, also painted periwinkle blue. "I never used to worry about choices in house design or color. It must be because we're spending money on every decision and I'm afraid of making a mistake." Already I have made mistakes; I forgot to ask Maestro, our foreman, to insert the beautiful tiles my parents gave me when my family lived in Pakistan during the Sixties, into a tile wall we created on the terrace. Barry and I discussed asking Maestro to redo part of the tile wall, but I felt it was too self-indulgent. There will be another place for the Pakistani tiles. But I still feel a bit rueful.
Barry said, "I'm sure by the time we're done, we'll look around and wish we had thought of something else we could have done here or there, and say, 'Oh, if only we had...' and 'Why didn't we...?'"
I keep reminding myself, a home is important. But it's not THAT important. It's only a home. It doesn't have to be perfect, which is good, because it won't be.
Barry and I joke about suffering from "Town Charming," the fantasy that some other town, far away in another state or country, will satisfy our every longing and dissipate our every problem. (Over the years, Boulder, Eugene, and Santa Fe were among our Town Charming candidates). I've also had Job Charming from time to time. And Body Charming! That one followed me around for years, er, decades. But House Charming, I never caught. A relief, I always thought; no room for envy, a state for which I'm easily disposed.
But then came Guanajuato and the only major remodel we have ever faced, and until recently (like, yesterday) I was, daily, catching the House Charming disease in ever greater increments.
"You really should go see other houses that David has done," we've been told. "The owners are always happy to show off their home and his architectural creativity." And I did see one. But when I suggested to Barry that we visit others, he balked. "We already have too many choices," he said. "We'll just start wishing we had done things differently, or feeling envious. We'll have more arguments." We had only just resolved an argument about what color to paint the Sky Room, our room on the roof, an argument that simmered and bubbled for days.
Our argument surprised me. I once read a story about a woman who fell in love with a man who said to her, over their first dinner together, "All colors make me happy, even gray." I would fall in love hearing that line, too, I thought. I love color. All colors.
Or do I? When it came to the Sky Room, I had no idea how stubborn and partisan I could be about the "right" color, the "only" color. It took multiple visits from David, bringing multiple sets of sample swabs, before we finally settled on a shade of green we could both live with. And here we've lived in a funky apartment in Eureka, California, with rooms a vague, uninspired off-white, that after six years we still haven't even thought about painting.
When it came to painting the outside walls of the Sky Room, we decided to ask David-the-mediator to choose the exterior color. He came up with periwinkle blue, the color of a house up the street. I had a suspicious feeling rumbling around me that he picked that shade because Barry said he liked it. "No, it was YOU who recommended it to David," Barry said when I told him.
"It's crazy," I said to Barry a couple of evenings ago as we sat on our new terrace, also painted periwinkle blue. "I never used to worry about choices in house design or color. It must be because we're spending money on every decision and I'm afraid of making a mistake." Already I have made mistakes; I forgot to ask Maestro, our foreman, to insert the beautiful tiles my parents gave me when my family lived in Pakistan during the Sixties, into a tile wall we created on the terrace. Barry and I discussed asking Maestro to redo part of the tile wall, but I felt it was too self-indulgent. There will be another place for the Pakistani tiles. But I still feel a bit rueful.
Barry said, "I'm sure by the time we're done, we'll look around and wish we had thought of something else we could have done here or there, and say, 'Oh, if only we had...' and 'Why didn't we...?'"
I keep reminding myself, a home is important. But it's not THAT important. It's only a home. It doesn't have to be perfect, which is good, because it won't be.
posted by Louisa at 3:16 AM
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