Mother’s Six Rules of Construction
While doing our usual weekend fix up, my husband paused to wipe his brow and said: “This house doesn’t need us, it needs a curator.” I looked up and muttered, “Or at the very least, round the clock nursing care.”
When I first discovered our house while on a walking tour, a typical California Monterey style with an elegant porte-cochere, I fell in love with it. It was exactly the home I had pictured in my mind’s eye. Oh, sure, we had to add a bathroom and bedroom or two for our growing family, but no problem I thought at the time. I was already picturing myself sitting comfortably in an overstuffed chair, a dry martini in an etched crystal glass, picture perfect with one olive, a leather-bound book open on my lap.
That, of course, is a dream yet to be fulfilled. After escrow closed, plans were drawn and approved by the Department of Building and Safety, and bids went out. We found our contractor and were informed the workers would start Monday morning. And start they did. We were still in bed when we heard the crash of plaster. We looked up to see an ax break through the wall two feet above our heads. The demolition crew was at work. Everyone was very apologetic and never again did anyone arrive at 6 a.m.
As we remodeled we tried to keep everything to scale with the original house, retaining as much of the original spirit as possible.
We learned elementary carpentry and our electrician taught me to patch plaster. Before we finished it was a total side-by-side effort. Finally, it was done, to the immense relief of all concerned.
Little did I know then I was embarking on a lifetime of refurbishing, refinishing and replacement. Almost any weekend we can be found painting, planting, staining. The men at the hardware store greet me by my first name.
One of my first lessons in building was a game called finding the studs, which gave new meaning to my earlier interpretation of this word. I believe this to be a non-existent piece of lumber on which every picture must be hung. This, according to my engineer husband, will prepare us for the great quake, when our pictures will swing and sway but remain firmly attached to our wall.
For years when our children were growing up there was no time or money for repairs after the initial bedroom and bathroom addition. The house acquired a very lived-in look from our three teen-agers. After 15 years of three showers per day, per child, the bathroom fainted.
Once again we were engaged in repairs and remodeling. Work progressed slowly. The old tile had to be removed from the downstairs bathroom and the shower pan replaced. We even had to go into a world I didn’t know existed, called sub-flooring.
Fortunately we had a most capable tile man who was able to match the existing tile in the bathroom. Everything looked the same but there were no leaks and all water damage was repaired. Goal accomplished.
We gained so much confidence, we decided to tackle that most difficult of all rooms to remodel, the kitchen, the very heart of our family. We replaced cabinets and added as many open shelves as we could. We kept the original tile because it had a mellow feel to it and was in keeping with our ever-conscious effort to retain the original. We added glass door cabinets, a bit of butcher block around the stove, and new appliances.
I think it was a real tribute to us all that we remained on speaking terms with each other throughout the ordeal. But as a precautionary measure for the future we hung a string of garlic across the kitchen window to ward off evil spirits.
At this point, we called in a landscape architect, opening up a whole new education and what became my avocation. Until this time we were strictly “If the ground turns brown, water it,” type of gardeners.
We were ready to work and work we did. The front yard had to be completely renovated. Our two sons spent days digging and hauling the St. Augustine grass that a rotor tiller couldn’t cut. It was a hands-on family effort.
We dug, planted and added soil increments. The front garden centered around a brick patio laid entirely by loving hands at home and was surrounded by native California plants. The bougainvillea-framed yard was finally planted, watered and blooming. Today our grandchildren enjoy the efforts of their father’s hard labor. For me the garden has become haven, therapy and sanctuary.
I think it was at this point I formulated my list of six building rules I’ve learned over the years:
1--Paint colors on the sample never look the same on the wall.
2--Plumbing problems come from very intricate origins, too complicated for the simple everyday layman to understand. Solution: Just pay, don’t let your husband fix it.
3--Electricity is a mystical, magical experience. It is incomprehensible to me and I suspect to many others. I just enjoy it, like Disneyland.
4--When the building process is going on, the house doesn’t belong to the homeowner. It belongs to it’s inhabitants, the plumber, electricians, framers, carpenters and painters. This becomes very territorial. The house can only be reclaimed when the workmen leave. Don’t fight it.
5--Decide what is most important. You’re not going to get everything. Building, like life, is full of compromises.
6--Mother’s Rule of Building and Remodeling--”Everything costs twice as much and takes twice as long as the original estimate.” This all-encompassing rule has served me in good stead through the years. It has never failed.
We were realizing more and more that restoration of Spanish style houses is an on-going lifetime hobby. If this is not what you have in mind, then the next time you pass a Spanish tile-roofed house, look at it, admire it, enjoy it; but if you do not possess total dedication keep right on walking.
Meanwhile, you can always find me, the working in-house gardener. We are continually repotting our geraniums, trimming trees and shrubs, or sitting happily ensconced in a bougainvillea-draped porch, planning our next adventure.
Even as I write this, I’m making plans for a rooftop terrace and working up courage to mention the lovely fountain I’m envisioning to my husband. The problem is, he keeps insisting on plans--you know all those little squiggly lines and numbers--while I’m strictly a “chalk on the walk” type of builder.
As you probably can tell, all this has taken its toll, causing us to become crotchety.
Now, whenever realtors call and ask: “I have a very persistent client, Is there any chance we can change your mind about selling your house?” I snarl, “I’m staying here forever, don’t call again. You’ll have to carry me out in a box”--for I have nearly realized my dream of sitting in my leather chair, reminiscent of Alistair Cooke on Masterpiece Theater.
I must confess, when our drought resistant garden smiles at me, the silver is polished, I’ve done my biannual cleaning, the roses are blooming and the white oleanders shield the yard, I am the epitome of the happy homeowner.
Right now I’m going upstairs to take a hot bath, all the while praying the tub doesn’t fall through the ceiling.
