We are arranging the demolition of our home: a stately 1925 Californian, gentlemen's-bungalow near a lovely beach in Adelaide.
We plan to replace the old house with a larger, two-story home to accomodate our family of six. However, my feelings about destroying this house, brimming with character and infused with the memories of generations of families who have lived here before us, are conflicted.
I imagine, at this time, that a scarlet letter 'T' - for traitor - is emblazoned on my forehead. I am the final custodian of this house: the protector, the conservator, the guardian. Yet, this week, I will sign the papers to have the house destroyed. I think that warrants a scarlet letter 'T' ... maybe on my heart.
I wish we had another choice. But I don't think that we do.
We first came to this house 13 years ago - in 2001. At that time we were a young family with two pre-school children. The house was then one of the worst houses in a lovely beachside, tree-lined street.
The street contained an eclectic assortment of housing styles: late 1800's villas,1920's Californian bunglows, 1930's Dutch gable and art deco houses, and a range of more contemporary houses - from small 1950's cottages through to modern McMansions.
Our bungalow was described by the realtor, then, as a 'fixer-upper' and 'a renovator's delight'. But, euphemisms aside, it was actually a 'run-down dilapidated mess'. Although, the asking-price was only $255,000, which was quite good value for an Adelaide beachside property in a 'good' suburb.
The house had been a 'rental' over the preceding 20 years and, in that time, it had progressively fallen into an ever-worsening state of disrepair. Until eventually, when it was put on the market seven months earlier, no-one had wanted it. The open inspections petered out, and the marketing campaign had gradually wound down until all that remained was a small photo of the house, with a price attached, stuck to the realtor's window. And that was where we found it.
On the day that we arranged to look at the house, the agent seemed bored and tired of the property. He gave us the house key and the address and sent us off to look at the place by ourselves. As we left his office he gave us a withered look - as if he expected us to return in 20 minutes, throw the key onto his desk, and then run out the door never to be seen by him or the house again. He'd likely see it all before.
So, filled with excited anticipation, we drove to the address and our first impression of the house was … that we couldn't see it ! It was completely hidden behind a 2 meter high red brick wall with a large old wooden-gate.
Undeterred, we jumped from the car, marched over to the large splintered gate, turned its old metal handle and pushed. But it was stuck. A foreshadowing - possibly. We tried again - gently-but-firmly this time. It wouldn't budge. Our efforts to open the gate incrementally intensified until, some minutes later, with our excitement rapidly turning into exasperation - we both took a running leap at our wooden nemesis - and hit it with the full force of our bodies. The gate budged a little, at first, and then it burst open, with a loud bang, sending us both stumbling onto the uneven and brocken paving-bricks of the driveway within. Success!
Regaining our footing and our composure - we looked about us and gained our first impression of the place, which was … horror! Our high spirits shifted down many notches. Our enthusiasm almost completely evaporated.
The front yard was a mess! Straggly overgrown bushes cluttered the 'garden' (a term used extremely loosely here), knee-high grass and weeds covered most of the remaining ground, and all vegetation pushed desperately up through mountains of bark chips. In amongst all this, strewn all about, was a stack of rubbish: broken plastic buckets and pots, up-turned cracked bird-baths, old papers and cardboard. And, as if that wasn't all quite bad enough, sitting obtrusively and bizzarrely, slap bang in the centre of it all, directly in front of the house, was a large old rusty garden-shed! Presumably, the shed had been dumped there as the back-yard no longer existed. We could see, as we looked down the side of the property, an old fence sitting bang up against the back of the house. A subdivision from long ago. Beyond the fence, the roof of another house could be seen.
Recovering from the shock of the yard, our attention turned to the bungalow. It was set well back from the road and it was a typical 1920's Californian gentlemen's bungalow: red brick and stucco finished walls, low pitch gabled corrogated iron roof, large gabled verandah, faded and peeling bottle-green timber joinery and front door, double-hung sash windows with lead light glazing to the upper sections. The house looked run down but it managed to retain an air of dignity and grandeur. It had the appearance of a large and stately home from a by-gone era. Our hopes lifted… a little.
Tentatively, we walked 'houseward' (yes, I did 'invent' that word). We were unsure what we might find inside. Reaching the verandah, David pulled the large old-fashioned house-key from the pocket of his jeans. He placed it into the aged lock of the front door - and turned it. The door opened … and immediately we were hit by a blast of musty, stale air which escaped from the dark interior. We hesitated, momentarily, braced ourselves again, and continued on inside.
The house was dark. We managed to find an old light switch, and flicked it on. The electricity was connected. A lightbulb, dangling from the ceiling by a rope-like cord and covered in cob webs, sprang to life. We had light. We could see.
The hallway was spacious and the ceilings were incredibly high. The feeling of the place was one of faded grandeur. There was a lovely sense of space and charm - not found anymore in newer houses.
Venturing deeper into the bowels of the house we found that the beautiful original character features were still intact: fret work in the hallway, ornate plaster ceilings, 1920's glazed-brick fireplaces, solid western red-cedar hallway cupboards, doors and other timberwork. Although, time and neglect had also left their mark: cob webs stretched from every corner; the previously pale carpets were now a yellow-brown and full of sand which crunched under our feet as we walked; the walls were cracked and pockmarked with holes the size of golf balls, and the paint on the walls was stained a brownish color from water damage and presumably the smoke from fireplaces over the decades; the solid timber doors had been partially stripped, revealing their dark wood, but then left half finished and with peeling strips of white/yellow paint; the kitchen contained only an old sink, a tap and an old peeling wood-laminate wardrobe, presumably used as a pantry by tenants; brocken and torn plastic blinds covered the dirty windows through the house.
David and I wandered through the house silently. Just looking. Speechless. We drifted in and out of the various rooms and finally, when we found each other again in the hallway, after about 10 minutes, we had made up our minds about the house. We were both absolutely sure. We loved it! We wanted buy it! The full asking price, of course!
We drove directly to the realtor's office, signed the papers to purchase the house (once we'd convinced him that we weren't joking … and we were of sound mind) and, within a couple of weeks, we had moved in - with our children.
Over the ensuing 13 years we never stopped loving the house. In fact, I can say that I've never had a house that I've loved so much. And I've lived in nine houses during my life. The house is sunny and friendly. Yes, friendly. It is possible for a house to feel 'friendly'. I'm not sure how that happens. It just does. And it has long ago changed from a lovely house to a lovely home for us.
We renovated the house, over the years: landscaped the gardens; painted inside and out; polished the baltic-pine floorboards; installed a cosy 'simulated wood-burning' gas-heater, and reverse-cycle air-conditioning; furnished the house in a style sympathetic to the 1920's era; rewired and replumbed. We restored the old house - into a beautiful home. Eventually, our own stories and memories and secrets (mostly related to 'failed-budgeting' - by me) melded into the fabric of the house - along with all of the memories and stories of the generations before us.
However, with time, we grew as a family - with two more children. We became a family of six. And those children grew older and we all found that we needed more space than our two-bedroom, one bathroom bungalow could give us. We considered lots of options: but with a fence against the back of the house, we couldn't extend; and we couldn't afford another larger house in the area - as prices had skyrocketed over the past decade; and we didn't want to move from the suburb.
So, we did what all mature and sensible people would do: we ignored the problem, pretended that it didn't exist, and hoped that, in some magical way, the predicament would sort itself out. That kind of worked ... for a while. Although, our three children (two teens) had to share one small bedroom, and our four year old had to sleep in the dining room. As we all sit at the dining-table for breakfast each morning, Ollie sometimes yells at us: 'Get out of my bedroom! I'm still sleeping.' He's still not aware that he doesn't actually have a bedroom, per se. But I know that I can't get away with that forever!
Finally, one day, not long ago, a wise and sweet friend of mine delicately broached the subject of the dearth of bedrooms in our bungalow relative to the number of occupants in our house. She delicately suggested that we might consider bulldozing the house and rebuilding a larger house on the block - if we didn't want to move suburbs.
What?! I was shocked. I was insulted. I was speechless. That idea had truly never crossed my mind. That was never an option we'd considered. We couldn't do that! With all of the work we'd done renovating the house and our history in it - we felt very emotional about our bungalow! The house felt more than just a house to us.
But, over the next few months, as I watched property developers in our suburb bulldoze character houses and subdivide blocks - I realised that if we didn't do this - then someone else probably would. The house isn't heritage listed, so if we moved, we couldn't protect it anyway.
Finally, we let ourselves begin to seriously consider the idea of bulldozing and rebuilding. At least we could stay in our lovely street in a suburb we've grown to really like.
The decision was made. We would pull the plug on the house. We would relegate it to history and memories where people may one day point to our McMansion and say sadly - I remember when there used to be a beautiful and elegant Californian gentlemen's-bungalow there. It was lovely. It had been there since 1925 when the suburb was first established with the returned WW1 soldiers. When people knew how to build a solid house that would last forever - unless some heartless person tore it down, of course. And then my name might be mentioned. And these unknown future-people would shake there heads sadly and comment about the heartlessness of some people.
I've told myself, and others, that a house is 'just a house'. It is just an object. It is only through the eyes and the hearts of people that the house comes to life. People see historical eras in brightly hued sentiments - and these feelings are simply projected onto the house.
But, I think that I protest too much. I don't really believe all that. My bungalow holds the memories and the magic of the eras that have lived within its walls. At least I feel it does.
However, the house will be demolished within a month.
My friend advised me to take lots of photos of my Californian gentlemen's bungalow. Then, the memories of the house will live on in pictures on my walls, as well as in my memories, and in my heart.
And then, she said, just blow it up, Robyn. And move on. That's progress.
* * *
A funny sign I bought this week, while out enjoying a Gloria Jean's, to hang on the wall of my study-to-be (when we build the new house):
'A wise man once said: I don't know. Ask a woman!'
I offered my lovely wooden sign to David - to hang on his study wall. But, for some reason he rolled his eyes to the ceiling, made some comment about women and 'acting superior' and men - or some such thing. I wasn't really listening. But, the up-shot was that he thinks the sign would look better in my study. Which was very thoughtful of him, I think.
But to any men reading this blog - the sign is, of course, a little joke. To any women reading this - I'm winking discretely at you - and smiling.
* * *
Also, to bulldoze a house that we love - reminds me of a joke:
A farmer is showing another man around his farm and the man notices a pig with only three legs. He asks the farmer how the pig came to have only three legs. The farmer replies that there is a story to that.
'Oh I'd love to hear it,' the man says.
'Well,' says the farmer, 'that there pig is a pretty special pig. He's done all sorts of amazing things in his life. Like there was the time that there was a fire in the house. We were all asleep and about to be burned to death in our beds. Then along comes our pig, he jumps through the window and drags us all to safety. Saved the whole family!'
'Wow!' says the man. 'Is that how he injured himself and came to have only three legs?'
'Oh, no!' says the farmer. 'It wasn't then. But, there was another time little Jimmy fell down the well. We didn't know what to do. But our pig here, he runs to the barn and comes back with a rope in his mouth. He ties the rope around a tree, over yonder, and he lowers himself down the well - holding onto the rope with his teeth. His teeth, I tell you! He goes right in there and saves our boy, Jimmy!'
'Wow!' says the man again.'That's amazing! Is that when he lost his leg?'
'Oh,no!' says the farmer. 'You haven't heard the half of it, with our wonderful pig, here. There was the time the car was rolling down the hill, about to fall off a cliff nearby. Wife and kids were in the car. Screaming. I was in shock. Our pig runs as fast as he can, jumps through the window of the moving car and slams his leg down onto the car brake. Stops the car and saves the family … again.'
'Is that when he lost his leg?' the man asks.
'Oh, no' says the farmer.
'Actually, I get the idea about how special this pig is,' says the man. 'But how exactly did he lose his leg?'
'Well', says the farmer,'when you've got a pig as special as this one … you don't want to eat him all at once!'
* * *
I hope everyone has a lovely week. I'll write a short story of fiction about a bungalow and its inhabitants - next week.
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