Tag Archives: home building

A Moving Idea

Sometimes an idea will simmer in your mind for a long time before you get the details worked out. Or even begin to take it seriously. Then some sort of trigger gets pulled and you feel compelled to act. Even obsessed with bringing this idea to fruition.

When I was a child my father’s employer transferred his job to another city. Another state. He loved his job, so he was going. And so were we. He was moving from the sprawl of Northern New Jersey to a manufacturing town in Pennsylvania. Not far from the Amish Country. He wanted to live in a rural area.

He and my mother looked at houses to make their new home. One of them was a farmhouse on a large hunk of acreage. In the middle of nowhere as farmhouses with vast expanses of land tend to be. He liked it. My mom, not so much. She was afraid that she would be isolated from the rest of humanity. And that her two young children would be stranded far from friends. Eventually they built a house in an upcoming new subdivision. Close to town, and shopping. The best schools in the state. A one-quarter acre lot.

This particular area was still considered to be in the country, and there were vast cornfields behind the house. And across the street, in the still undeveloped portion of the neighborhood, there were open fields. Up the road was the farmhouse and red barn to which all of this land had once belonged. So my father got a little of what he wanted, and my mother got everything she wanted.

That’s where I grew up. From age five until I graduated from high school. The day after I graduated, my parents moved out. They had bought my father’s dream home. An old stone farmhouse on ten acres of land. With a barn. They lived there for the next thirty-eight years and although I had grown up in suburbia, I have ever since considered this second home, Shadowlawn Farm, to be my real home. Like my father, I too loved the country life.

Fast forward to twenty years ago. My life takes many turns similar to my fathers. My wife and I had started a family and were living in an urban subdivision. The schools were failing and we wanted more for our children. We started to look in the neighboring county. Which happened to have the best schools in the state.

We looked at existing subdivision homes. We looked in the country. Every Sunday we would drive out to the country and ride around looking. One neighborhood had particular appeal to my wife. Best one in the county. We had always heard that you should buy the worst house in the best neighborhood you could afford. That was her plan. I was still holding out for the farm.

Finally it was my father-in-law who caused me to take action. He shamed me into it. What he said to me one day was that my kids needed to move. They needed to be near other kids. And I should get off my wallet and do right by my family. Of course I was going to take care of my family, but I didn’t have to do it at the expense of my life. But I did.

Time was passing and a new school year was approaching. If we bought a new house, or piece of property in the next county we could enroll the girls in the best schools available. There was a vacant lot for sale in that best neighborhood. So I bought it. And my wife and I got together with a builder and proceeded to construct a new house. It was exciting, but a story for another time and blog post.

Fast forward once again. This time to 2016. For the past twenty years I have been poring over real estate books looking at houses. Moving has never been a consideration. The kids were still in school. Then college. My wife was content. I was antsy. Then my back failed. Two surgeries later and I was having real difficulty with the stairs in our three story house. And walking. Moving suddenly became a consideration. But where?

To be continued…

That’s part of my story. What’s yours?

www.personalhistorywriter.com

 

 

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The Staircase

Back in the day people weren’t terribly concerned with building codes. You took pride in your work. Maybe you were building the family farmhouse, or log cabin on the frontier. This was your home. You did your best and hoped it didn’t either fall down or burn down. Not everyone was a good builder and a lot of houses fell down. Or burned down. Or were abandoned. Driving through the country I see a lot of what I like to call fixer uppers. Collapsed piles of brick, wood or stone, far beyond any salvation.

Building houses has always been expensive so you used available materials. A tree you used for a wall in the cabin was just a tad beyond ripe. That rock in the foundation wasn’t quite flat and the house seemed strangely out of kilter. These kinds of things made for funky imperfections. Character. Along comes electricity. We replace gaslights, and their danger of burning down your house and the whole block, with electric lights. A miracle. And a jumble of wires running everywhere through the house. Now the danger is bare wires and overloaded circuits.

And who builds their own house nowadays? You rely on builders being professional, experienced, and ethical. You have no idea what lurks beyond that sheetrock.

I watched in amazement as my aged parents navigated the staircase in their old stone farmhouse. Sixteen stairs. Creaky old wood. Covered in carpet. On either side of the staircase was a handrail. Rickety on both sides. The stairs were steep. And narrow. Not up to code I would say. But good for their day.

My mother would go up ok, hauling herself all the way using the handrails. It was coming down that was so scary. She’d come down sideways. Holding on for dear life. One foot down, then the other. Two feet on a step. Then to the next step. Until she reached the bottom. At age 87 she seemed quite comfortable with it. But she’d been up and down these stairs thousands of times over the past thirty-eight years.

The stairs hadn’t changed a bit in those years. But she had. And I had visions of her tumbling down from top to bottom. Ending up much like the fixer upper I mentioned earlier.

I love the house. And the stairs. But I was glad she and my father were moving to a two-bedroom apartment. All on one floor. In a building with an elevator. But damn if they didn’t take the stairs to their place on the second floor! Tough old bird.

That’s part of my story. What’s yours? www.personalhistorywriter.com

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