The publishers of Dwell, Better Homes and Gardens, and the other slicks that foment homeowner dissatisfaction, will probably be thriving when we’re all in the poor house. Home Depot would still be doing just fine without them. Old houses need repairs, almost weekly, and every time you move, even to a rental, you feel compelled to at least change the wall color, carpet or drapes.
In the early ’70s, I bought a fixer-upper in Hidden Hills, mostly because it was the cheapest thing I could find within a good school district that had enough room and zoning for horses. I basically stole the house, but I paid dearly to every plumber, carpenter and electrician in the Valley. Having always lived in older houses, I was undaunted by the aging shake roof, the cranky plumbing and inadequate wiring. Houses age. You just deal with their maladies one by one–that is, when you have the cash.
A cursory inspection had been done prior to escrow closing, but the inspector was either blind or on the take. The water heater leaked from day one, but it was in the garage, so who knew? The shower pan leaked so badly it buckled the bathroom walls–camouflaged with dark patterned wallpaper–cracked the floor tile and rotted the subfloor and joists. The termite inspection required by law didn’t tell the whole story either. “The good news is you don’t have termites,” an inspector not involved with the listing real estate agent told me later. “The bad news is you have carpenter ants.”
The house was shaded by three fruitless mulberry trees (great for shade, but a root system from hell). They cracked the concrete patio, part of the foundation and invaded the sewage pipes. Then the electric panel blew out and almost burned the house down. My bargain bungalow turned into a cash cow for local repairmen.
When I sold it at an astonishing profit, I vowed forever to rent. I wanted to call the super when something went wrong, be able to lock the door and go away for weeks at a time without worrying about landscaping.
I rented a Malibu condo. It had a non-whitewater view of the ocean, teensy balcony, gated entry, tennis court, swimming pool and reasonably quiet neighbors. The skylights and dormer windows leaked but, oh well, not my problemo. I was stylin’.
Then my accountant told me I would be giving my capital gains to the IRS unless I bought or built something within two years. There went the carefree life.
I decided to build a new house on ranch property we had owned since 1961. I bought a 20-acre parcel of it from my kids, drilled a well, graded a driveway and designed a house that would, I vowed, have none of the failings of my previous homes.
This began a 12-month battle with the contractor over practically everything I wanted that wasn’t in the last 400 houses he built. His main concern was bringing the project in under budget and on time. Fair enough. But do all contractors have to be so condescending toward women?
Through diligence and pestering, the house turned out beautiful, functional and everything works. Well, almost everything. Six years after moving in, I’ve replaced and added many things overlooked or deemed too expensive by Mr. Build It For Less.
One of my best ideas was to build the house around a south-facing patio lined with French doors that acts as a heat sink in winter. The sun warms the glass and sinks into the tile during the day and reflects the heat back in the evening. The only problem is that it does the same thing in summer.
Suggestions from builders ranged from turning it into a screened porch to hanging heavy draperies on all the French doors. Nice try, guys. But I don’t want a solid roof blocking the winter sun, I don’t want drapes blocking the view, and I definitely don’t want to spend all that money.
Yesterday, I finished putting up a lovely piece of dark green shade cloth, purchased to order from American Horticulture Supply. I had studied the one put up by our local nurseryman and bought what I thought was all the hardware I needed: 60 screw hooks to attach the grommets, 4 eye bolts for the corners to hook to the support cables, 8 tiny U bolts for the cables, 4 hooks with turnbuckles to tighten the cables and dozens of little nuts and washers.
I spread out all the stuff and decide I can do this myself. Perhaps. Nobody said this could be assembled with simple kitchen tools. I start the holes with a hammer and an awl. This works for the little screw hooks, but not for the eye bolts–the large screw eyes split the eaves. While solving this, I discover that I am eyeball to eyeball with a large wasp that is doing something to a cute little honeycomb thing stuck under the eaves. We arrive at a truce: I don’t threaten its honeycomb thing and it doesn’t sting my eyeball. Eventually, I will renege on my end of the bargain.
After many fumbles and expletives the shade cloth is up. It is beautiful. It doesn’t even sag, though a gust of wind will sail it whimsically aloft. I rearrange the plants on the potting bench, put out the new French tablecloth and decide to spend what I saved on labor for new chair cushions. Pretty good for a woman who didn’t know a turnbuckle from a toggle bolt. All I’m out is $189, and I didn’t have to take a lot of condescending remarks from the macho builder guys.