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the avra valley dispatch: 22 July 2004 --The House of Squalor
My home had no curb appeal. It was a sorry little dwelling; a Charlie Brown Christmas tree of a house.
And I found myself growing increasingly defensive about it: "oh, it's a fixer-upper ... heh, just ignore that ... I haven't quite got to this -- or that or those over there -- yet." I even made excuses to the fabulous Rick and Dave, friends I've hired this week to (finally!) paint the exterior.
"I think we can bring the exterior more in line with the standard of the interior of your home," Dave most diplomatically stated.
I'm happy with the interior -- it accurately reflects everything Molly: the colours are unusual but low key, the basics are few but classic yet generously and eclectically accessorized, and the square footage is small but the space is maximized.
When I first saw the house on a rainy day, and inside it was dingey and dark: walls were covered with soot and years of cobwebs and grease; and there were several haphazard attempts at repainting in muddy colours -- you could see where the painter(s) had gone around furniture or pictures. There was a hole in living room floor, open to the dirt below. The only source of heat was a heavy cast iron stove sitting on bricks that had gouged the floor under it. There was a path from the bathtub (sans curtain, of course) across the living room floor to the La-Z-Boy that years of wet footprints had coaxed out of the finish on the floor. The bathroom floor was a springy dryrotted platform. There were gaps around the sliding doors in the bedroom that I could stick my finger through to the outside. I could go on...
But!
The roof wasn't leaking -- in fact, the ceilings were beamed and high -- and the house had an open, quasi-Eichlerish floorplan that made its 800 square feet seem much larger.
It had potential and I pragmatically fell in love with it immediately -- for as a single executive assistant (moonlighting as saucy pinup artiste girl, of course) without rich parents or a generous benefactor (applications always accepted) it was the best house on the most land that I could afford.
I bought the house, and spent the next seven months flying back and forth from Silicon Valley dolling up the interior but ignoring the exterior, hoping it would go away.
The property -- the land -- itself is quite lovely. Most of the residential lots in Avra Valley are sandboxes: scraped down flat and treated to a mobile home and a twiggy tree or some garden gnomes. Fortunately my property was left natural, with comparatively small areas cleared for buildings. There are easily hundreds of creosote bushes, mesquite, and palo verde trees on the three acres -- and a giant ponderosa, a eucalyptus, and a loquat. There are several washes and a pleasant overall rolling hilliness.
But Buster's dilapidated wobbly box is the first thing you see when you pull in the driveway. And while he was in a coma when I bought the property, somehow his steady diet of Natural Ice, cigarettes, bacon n' eggs, and fried potatoes has delayed his checkout time. (Am I awful? Is it awful to wish away a drunken disabled Viet Nam vet who follows you around like a puppy, calling and writing notes, and wondering if you still love him? ...more on that some other day.) So, Buster's place is a not-to-be-resolved-anytime-soon eyesore, yes. (Yet, it's in keeping with the rest of the neighbourhood...more on that some other day.)
Then, you pull up to my house: the backward on the lot Silverbell Mine house with cracked asbestos cement tiles trimmed in funky picnic table redwood yuck paint and the broken washing machine and the klugey addition with the falling-in ceiling that I've permanently closed the door on, and the also klugey porch with saggy parts wrapped around half of the house.
It's been a -- how'd that line go? -- a reliable disappointment for nearly a year.
Until today, when I pulled up to my house, and thanks to the fabulous Rick and Dave, it was "bouquet orchid" (light purple). Even though the trim isn't painted yet (due to be painted "aureole" yellow -- which I chose because of its similarity to "areola"), and the Arizona room is still funky picnic table redwood yuck paint instead of "johnny blue" (light blue), my little House of Squalor had suddenly blossomed into the Little House that Could.
For once I felt not at all defensive about the place; I felt almost eager to show it off. For your amusement, "before" pictures are below; "after" pictures to be posted soon / eventually...
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The main entryway -- even though it is the back of the house. Note friendly washing machine, and array of utility boxes to greet you.
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The real entryway -- next to the Arizona room (screened portion on the right) and the klugey porch, which used to be covered in green astroturf.
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More of the klugeyness. Surprisingly, in this photo it actually doesn't look so klugey -- but note untrimmed railway tie jutting out at left. The structure of the porch is made up of railway ties and cinderblocks. Rural salvage know-how and ingenuity. |