We all need some fixing

As my husband is fond of saying, "her house, our home." I bought this house six years ago in September on a leap of faith and a prayer, as a recent divorcee on a meager salary. Looking back, I can only wonder, what the hell was I thinking? It was financially risky, but I remember thinking it was a trade-off to get my life back. A homebody can't feel at home without a home.
She certainly was a fixer-upper. Dark wood trim framed dark walls over beat-up floors painted with Kilz and scraped again. Scars where old knob and tube were yanked and capped, with the new electric running nearby, sometimes patched up with leftover trim board, right on top of old cracked lath and plaster walls. Yellow linoleum running a foot up the wall of a tiny kitchen. Loose windows that caught snow on the inside sill on a blustery day. Printed paper wallpaper patterns so tiny they would jut out 3-dimensionally, even when I hadn't been drinking.

But this old girl had good bones (and so did the house. ;) Solid brick built on Ambridge steel beams dug into the side of a shale hill. Nine-foot beamed ceilings capped with original drop case molding. A fireplace with built-in storage banquette seating, never painted. Little arched windows that shot the sweetest little sunbeams you ever saw. A pocket door to a den, four bedrooms, living and dining, and one decent-sized bathroom. (As you see pictures of our home or read this description, you will recognize classic architectural features of a Craftsman style home, prevalent construction in the Arts and Crafts era from about 1900-1930.) There were huge planks made into canning shelves in the basement with plenty of room for storage, a tool room and laundry. Plus a two-car garage, some overgrown landscaping and a new sidewalk. And the aforementioned porch.
In that first year in the house, I cleaned, painted, plastered, insulated, and had new hardwood installed in the worst of the areas. The yellow linoleum in the kitchen hit the dumpster pretty early, too, traded for black ceramic tile (don't ever do that -- I'll tell you why later). New stock cabinets (there were only two!) were installed around a new microwave, stove and 'fridge, which took me nearly a year to pay off. I scrimped every penny that year. Actually, I think I scrimped for quite a bit longer.  It was a cold winter that first year, and I hunkered down even more to afford the gas that heats the house. I blocked the chimney with newspaper and I put foam tape in the window gaps. I kept my thermostat at 66, down to 60 at night, and piled on the blankets.
At times the house was a wreck. Torn up, mid-project, on my timeline, dictated by whatever my own labor limitations, budget for materials and the occasional handyman would allow. Yes, at times, you just want to shut the door on it all and wonder if it will ever get done. Heck, I still wonder that.

I would shut the door... and I'd take some time-outs on that porch. Half-covered, half-open, the porch is like having a thousand-square-foot tree house, perched on that steep hill, in among the maple trees. I'd watch storms roll in, drink a glass of wine by candlelight, or turn on the radio to Latin music and pretend I was on vacation, basking in the hot sun on the terracotta tile deck. All pretty much free, save a $9 Chardonnay.

I didn't know it then, we needed each other -- this house and me. We found our beauty and dignity again, lovingly restored upon our good bones. And we're still together.

Welcome to House on Hope Street

Welcome to my new blog, House on Hope Street. Let me tell you the story of this charming street sign, standing askew and catty-corner from my front porch. I would sit on my wicker chair and look out across the street, and often my gaze would fall upon this sign. Simply stated and a bit worn from its vintage, the word HOPE worked on me one summer. I had a nasty commute, would get home beat and uninspired, and had quit looking forward to weekends. One day I looked at that sign as I would most days and it was just as if one of the 90-year old bricks fell off my chimney and hit me on the head: I was missing HOPE. Whatever it is that puts a glimmer in your eye in anticipation of something new or fun or precious or better. Whatever it is that puts a spring in your step, oh, about halfway through Thursdays. Whatever inner inspiration that scurries your mind in planning, creating and what-iff-ing until you fall asleep at night. I was sitting on my patio chair waiting for all that to come back to me, and all along it was taunting me from across the street.
I made a vow to myself to be more intentional about planning, doing, seeing, visiting, sharing. Being more purposeful about meeting joy half-way. Being artful, learning and doing. I turned my life around, for better or worse, looking at this sign, all while sitting on the porch of my little House on Hope Street.