Building a House to Die In

When people hear that I’m rebuilding my burned-down house, they smile and ask me if I’m now building my “dream house.”  They’re always crestfallen when I say “No.”

My dream house, I tell them, is a glass box on stilts, overlooking the ocean, on a cliff somewhere outside of Mendocino, California. It has a pool, and a hot tub. It comes with a gardener, a housekeeper, and a personal assistant who wakes me every morning by pushing a button that slowly raises the shades on my glass-walled bedroom, as she sets down a tray of espresso and warm croissants.  She tells me that Nellie has already been fed and has had her early morning walk, and hands me my schedule of appointments for the day.  Nellie jumps up on the bed, vying for a bit of croissant as I sip my espresso and look out over the ocean, and think about my day.

That’s my dream house. Emphasis on the word, “Dream.” What I am building in reality is the house I can afford – a beautiful, albeit practical house.  A one-story, two-bedroom, age-in-place, net-zero house, where I can spend the rest of my life overlooking the mountains, not the ocean. A house to live in; a house to die in.

What I dream of these days is a house that has photovoltaic panels and passive solar heat, and super-efficient appliances that “reduce load” and consume little electricity. I dream of having no utility bills for the rest of my life, and selling electricity back to the power company. I dream of on-demand hot water, super-insulated walls, and thermal breaks in the construction that help keep my house warm in the winter and cool in the summer.

This is not to say that I don’t love the design for my new house – I do. I am lucky to have a wonderful architect and a compassionate and experienced contractor. But this is not your usual house building project, with happy clients who are at last doing that great remodel, or who really are building their Dream House. I am edgy and weepy and obsessively worried about money. My judgment is sometimes impaired from the long process of grief and loss and the daily grind of endless to-do lists that I mostly handle all by myself. I am a single, self-employed, middle-class American with little savings, who has just gone through one of the most traumatic experiences of her life. I am in no shape to be building a house. But of course, I am.  So I do my best to try to find ways to both save money and build something that will suit my needs in the long haul.  And of course, it has to be pretty. And I have to love it.

That said, you can imagine that I am driving my architect and builder a little crazy. I’m good at making decisions, but I’m also an obsessive, over-educated researcher. When my builder said, “You have to pick a bathtub really soon, so we know where to set the drain in the foundation,” I drove myself crazy with possible options. Instead of saying, “Oh, let’s just put in a standard bathtub. Whatever fits in the space will be fine,”  I researched bathtubs for three straight weeks. I went to plumbing showrooms all over Colorado, and to Lowes and Home Depot and the Great Indoors, searching the aisles. I climbed into tubs and stretched out, looked at squares and ovals and Jacuzzis and Japanese soaking tubs, and even called my eighty-one-year-old Mom in California and asked her to measure her bathtub.

Finally, I found a sort of hybrid jacuzzi/soaking tub on line, and they were having a half-off sale that included free shipping, and it was the LAST day of the sale. I called the builder and the architect and they told me the tub I wanted was too big, but if I wanted to make the bedroom a little smaller, they could fit it in. “Do it,” I said.  I must confess, I felt quite powerful, chopping six inches off the bedroom in one fell swoop. And now I have my really big, comfy tub, ordered and paid for.  It is luxurious (oval and with jets) and practical (energy efficient, easy to clean, and has built-in grab bars.) I love it. I wish I could get in that tub right now, in fact.

And then there’s the deck.  Back in October of last year, I did a little doodle of what I wanted for my new house.  I drew a simple, one-story box, with a big, semi-circular deck that ran the entire length of the house. I remember I laughed to myself, and thought, “Fat chance I’ll ever be able to build a deck like this.” But I stuck the drawing in a book, and kept it.

Fast forward to the first meeting at the architects’ studio, where we looked at preliminary sketches.  There, on paper, was my small house, with a square deck. Very cute, very affordable. As David Barrett, the head of the studio, said, “Very rational.” I liked it a lot, and didn’t say anything about my Dream Deck, the one that would look like the deck of a ship, and help me imagine, as I leaned on the railing at night, that I was sailing the seas, somewhere off the coast of Mendocino.  I stayed quiet, and smiled, and focused on other parts of the house.

At one point in the conversation, there was a pause, as we all looked at the plans.  Then I said quietly, “Um, could we make the deck a little bigger?” We stared silently at the drawings, the very tight budget and the cost of decking materials running through our heads.  Then David picked up a pen from the table, and said, “Well, what about this?” And he drew a semi-circular deck, running from end to end, like the deck of a ship.  Amy, the lead architect, who is brilliantly creative and eminently practical, raised an eyebrow. “That’s a REALLY big deck, David.”  And I sat there grinning like a kid, feeling giddy for the first time since the fire. “Yes,” I said, barely able to contain my excitement. “That’s a REALLY big deck.” And that’s the deck we’re building.

Since the deck is so darn expensive, I have to cut costs in other ways.  On Saturday, I kid you not, I read the entire IKEA catalogue on line, obsessively trying to figure out ways to save money on the cabinets, the closet doors, the kitchen. But it’s worth it. When I move in, I may only have two towels and five dishes from the Goodwill, but I will have a deck to die for.  And a small, gorgeous, energy-efficient house to live in, for the rest of my life.

So when people ask me, “Are you building your dream house?”and I reply, “No, I’m building a house to die in,” they think I am morbid and strange.  But it is a joyful concept, and an overwhelming, but deeply satisfying process.  A house I can live in, gracefully, as I age. A house that is run by the power of the sun, and that is filled with the love of friends, who will sit on the big, curved deck and dream their own dreams – of houses, and oceans, and pirate treasure, buried deep.  A house to die in – a house to live in. That is my dream these days.

Wishing You Sweet Dreams, and Safe Travels,

Andi

Pouring the foundation for the new house!