Why I Bought The House I Bought

What makes a house a home?

If there’s a pat answer to that age old question, I don’t know what it is. The answer is likely different for everyone. For me, though, the answer has to do with connections to my childhood.

I grew up in a very small town. It’s much bigger now than when I was a kid, but it’s still on the small side. Anyway, townsfolk never had much. Most of us were not starving poor, but we were not well off by any means. We owned small, two or three bedroom houses with one bath that required us as families to find ways to get along in the mornings. There were those who owned an acre or two out of town, which enabled them to raise a few chickens, goats, and horses (we were in this category), while others lived in town with dinky yards and one or two bedroom houses. There were also those who owned large amounts of acreage, but these folks – mostly farmers – also had relatively small, older homes. A few residents actually had money to speak of and possessed both land and fancy houses – but they were the minority.

The biggest house in town was occupied by a classmate of mine. The house was what my youthful mind with limited experience thought of as “massive”, complete with an attic type room on the third floor which housed oooohhhhh … about a truck load of dolls. Every time I drove by it on the way home from school, jealousy oozed from my little self and enveloped me like a cocoon. Outside, it resembled a doll house. Inside, it WAS a doll’s house, and admittedly, I loved everything dolls and coveted like the unregenerate sinner I was.

But my love for that house was mostly aesthetic in nature. I didn’t love it because it felt like home. I loved it because it was beautiful. Big. Bodacious. Da bomb. And full of fake babies.

Ironically, the house I just bought (with my husband’s money!) is anything but big or bodacious. But to me, it’s beautiful, and definitely da bomb. It has a stark resemblance to the type of houses I grew up in and around, and I instantly felt at home when we looked at buying it.

It’s about 2,000 square feet. A thousand up. A thousand down. It’s as old as me, exactly. There are a few rooms in the basement that show their age, but for the most part, it’s evident the place has been cherished. The original hardwood floors need a little help but are in good shape. The bedrooms upstairs are small with sticky doors – until my handyman husband fixed them. Go ahead, ladies. Be jealous. Be very jealous.

The upstairs bathroom is half out of date, half modern, but I love it. Why? Mostly because nobody else down the street has the same bathroom (“just say no to cookie cutter houses” has been my motto). It has a stackable, brand new washer and dryer. They’re located directly behind the bathroom door, which is annoying, but since my Mom, who lives with us now, has Parkinson’s, and I am still suffering from mysterious, right sided tremors and weakness, going up and down stairs to do laundry fifty times a week seemed about as safe as some of the stunts Adam and Jamie pull on Myth Busters.

The kitchen is also a mix of new and modern. The cabinets scream “1970!”, but they are in swell shape. The floors are new, and the appliances are new(er) and quiet. I can’t even tell the dishwasher is running when I’m standing next to it, and it’s the first dishwasher I’ve ever had that dries well. The kitchen window, located above the sink, looks out to the back patio/grassy area – the most peaceful place on the property. I often joyfully watch for wee, white-bottomed bunnies whilst scrubbing crusty pots and pans.

Take that, June Cleaver.

She still has me beat on the whole wearing high heels and dresses to do housework thing, but whatever.

The two bedrooms upstairs are small. And given the fact that in the 70’s, Americans weren’t spoiled enough to have a master bath (ha!), it doesn’t have one.

It sits on two-ish acres. Half of it is grassy with mature trees. Some of the trees probably won’t make it. The grass, after a week straight of watering it, looks like it may survive – at least in most areas. So half of the property is nothing but dirt and weeds. The other is half wilted, parched, and stares at me like an orphan would a prospective parent.

The point is: it’s not perfect or anywhere near perfect. It’s lovely and charming and has huge potential. But it’s not perfect.

When we moved into the farmhouse, aka the money pit, some people responded by saying “Well, give it some time. It’s a work in progress. Just like you and me.”

Right. Only not. Where people are concerned, there are WIP’s and then there are unregenerate souls who are anything but works in progress. They’re train wrecks, heading straight for damnation if Someone doesn’t help.

That’s what the farmhouse was: damned, unless I could pour fifty thousand bucks or so into it (in addition to all the money we had already spent on repairs). I simply didn’t have the funds. It was a hopeless house, unless someone who had the monetary means to transform it into a usable vessel also had the desire to resurrect the poor dilapidated thing. It needed someone rich and able bodied and I was neither.

The new house is a usable vessel. If houses could be saved, it would be that, and a bearer of much fruit. And speaking of fruit, we’ve decided to call it Orchard House, because God willing, it will literally bear fruit once we invest in some fruit trees and berry bushes. Plus it’s only natural for every “Marmee” to call her home Orchard House. (Little Women, anyone?)

But back to the original question of what makes a house a home. I’m still a little fuzzy on the answer. Functionality, for sure. But when I look at the big, fancy, perfect houses for sale in the neighborhood just down the street and I realize that for the same price, I could’ve had one but chose Orchard House instead? That tells me that a homey feel is found in what you like. Not in what you’re expected to like.

I’ve struggled in the past with thinking I have a duty to conform to the norm for the area we live in. That I have to buy a big cookie cutter house with brand new carpet, formica counter tops, crazy backsplash, gas fireplaces, awkward, built in entertainment centers, and perfectly manicured lawns. But the problem is, though these houses truly are beautiful, I don’t tend to feel at home in them, and neither does my husband. He’s a guy who needs to be able to come home from working in a dirty machine shop all day and not feel like he has to change clothes before he steps foot into a white-carpeted, magazine-worthy house he worked all day to pay for. Also, there’s that view of his that says HOA’s are a manifestation of communism.

*snort

I guess what I’m saying is that I feel at home in imperfection. In ridiculously cute, country decor that would make modern decor experts want to lose their lunch. In country settings with country neighbors who are kind, but know what it is to desire some space and freedom to grow weeds if that’s what turns our crank. (Note:  I said weeds, not weed!)

So while I could’ve spent my (husband’s) hard earned money on a perfectly manicured house and yard, I didn’t. I bought the house I bought precisely because it isn’t the pinnacle of perfection.

It’s a true WIP.

Just like me.