Handyman

Back when my girlfriends and I were creating lists, describing our ideal men, we left off a very, very important qualification for prince charming.

That of handyman.

It was an easy mistake. After all, when I was growing up 'handy man' was covered by the list of names and corresponding phone numbers pinned to the bulletin board - a comprehensive portfolio of who to call when you sprung a leak, got a clog, had critters to control, wanted to reroute that so this works, had outgrown the wall paper in your room, or pushed start and your appliance of choice didn't commence its task.

I guess I figured that you would always just have a list next to your phone; that my Zac Efron type of guy would just call the handy man needed to do the job; and that Palko, Redpath, Simko or another one of Pittsburgh's finest would come to my rescue gratis.

But when you grow up, move out, get married, purchase this old house, and find yourself on a budget, 'handy' becomes a critical descriptor for your man. And I'm pretty sure that Zac would have epically failed this week. And the skinny ties, expensive hair products and closet full of designer tees wouldn't have left us room in our budget to pay for an electrician, a repair man, a plumber and the painters. 

Before we moved, there were hints of Peter's skills. Say when we watched 'This Old House,' he seemed to have a clue as to what they were talking about. Or when he would clean the gutters, do battle with the sump pump, or use a level to hang my artwork. 

But recently, his handiwork has really taken it up a notch.

There was stagnant water in the dishwasher last week, and he got everything cleaned up and working again.

Our bath tab wouldn't drain, so he braved what lies beneath, plunged, cleared, plunged again and softscrubbed up the mess. My hair's fault. Not mine.

The chipmunks under our house started to become a bit too audible, and suddenly you can't hear them anymore. I don't want to know the method behind that one.

When we needed to prep the semi screened in porch for the painters, he jimmied out the old screens just as the temperatures dipped below 100 degrees this week.

When he met the hose clamp king at Peggy's party, he talked about the many ways in which he has used hose clamps, while my disinterest became more and more visible.

In total, Peter did about 10 projects this week alone, and I'd bet he saved us more than $500 on handiwork. If not more.

I'd really like to say that I'm doing my part too. But the garden is already in; I'm just watering it, weeding it and watching it grow. And I didn't even have to make dinner last night. Instead, I came home to Peter seasoning a steak and prepping a French salad that he had read about in the NY Times Dining section yesterday morning - a purist salad nicoise. 

If guys have discovered the secret to lifelong happiness in getting themselves an ugly wife, then girls, one of the secrets to a happy marriage is adding 'handyman' to your list. Trust me, you'll reap the benefits.

Lo.

House Happy

I was one of those kids who looked forward to the day when my report card came in the mail. I loved ripping in it, slowly unveiling each course and each grade that corresponded with the themed work I had done over the course of the year, and each of the comments that my teachers left for me. To me, getting an A was good, but getting a great comment was better.

I would relish in comments such as:
'Lo's enthusiasm is contagious.' (I loved that one.)
'Lo's enthusiasm is a joy to behold in class.'
'Lo is overly enthusiastic.' (I now wonder if this particular comment had a sense of irony to it. Like the teacher was actually trying to say, 'pipe down crazy!')

It's 100 percent true though - one of my strongest suits has always been an excitement and zest for life. In school, it boiled up after the Ranchers won the 'State A Fact' title in fourth grade, when I threw my pencil down and finished a Math test before Paul B., when I aced a performance on opening night in the school play, when I scored the winning goal in a field hockey or lacrosse game, or most commonly, when a teacher revealed a piece of knowledge or understanding that was fresh and new to me - something that I could pocket and take home to use as a trump card in the game of who knows the most around the family dinner table.
'Did you know? Oh you didn't? Well, listen to this. Aren't I something now?'

This weekend I learned that my signature enthusiasm, that zeal that afforded me the highest marks possible in classroom participation, doesn't have the same luster in the subject, house-buying.

Here's how it went down. I had set myself up for a best day ever type scenario: Long run, hair cut, Red Mango, house inspection, movie, dinner with Bob and Melissa - it was going to be amazing. After churning and burning 11.5 miles in 85 minutes, I was pumped. Six inches later, while bobbing and bouncing my new do down the street to get an ice cream, I was on cloud nine. Then when I pulled up to our (potentially) new house, and the seller's realtor drew the 'under contract' card and matched it to mine, I nearly exploded with excitement.

'WOW! I LOVE that sign!!'
'Oh my God, I'm obsessed with this House.'
'Can you please, PLEASE help make it happen by April 5. Oh, I'm just SO excited.'

With each of these (and other give-us-away comments) I would see Peter's face go from a straight, business-like mug, to a pursed lip, shaking head, rolling eyes, threatening, 'shut the F up' expression. He finally pulled me aside to let me know I was playing the game all wrong. I should keep a stern poker face - especially to the seller's realtor.

Seriously? How was I supposed to contain all the hopes and dreams that this house held to me?
The summer nights we would watch the big storm come in while sipping a home brew on the lanais.

The evenings we would snuggle by the fireplace to keep the cold Chicago winter off our backs. 

Our kids running down the stairs on Saturday morning to curb their aroma-inspired appetites with dad's bacon.

Making sure the top and bottom are locked when we were going to head out of town for the weekend.

Knowing that there are relatives watching over this house from above.

Displaying our wedding china and crystal in the built in hutch.

Understanding that the kind of TLC that this house needs is something that only Peter and I will be able to make possible.

And thinking that 326 isn't so far from 126. Built about 15 years apart. Filled with the potential for just as many memories, special niches, and epic feasts.

I'm really hoping my formerly high-scoring enthusiasm doesn't spoil anything. And I'm still crossing my fingers that within the next week or so, all parties will give this deal a go.

Lo.

This Old House

The setting for Oma's 85th birthday party was a house. An old house. A beautiful Victorian farm house built in 1870 in the heart of Batavia, Illinois.

When we approached the house and Peter pointed out that the big building behind it used to be Bellevue Place, the insane asylum where Mary Todd Lincoln was committed in the latter part of her life, thoughts of nightly hauntings quickly drifted through my mind. 

However, after walking up the stairs, onto the porch, through the sturdy, historical double front doors and into a house ripped from the pages of architectural digest, the ghosts quickly vanished. Any specter would have been shooed away with the squirrels and bats and soggy newspapers that were found in the crevices and crawl spaces of the house as Uncle Andy and Aunt Jeannie started doing massive renovations about seven years ago.

Celebrating 85 years would have been momentous and rich with stories whatever the backdrop. But something about the house - its history, the TLC it has received, and the subtle creak in the floors, begging for our noise to continue - made the party more festive, the lasagna tastier, the icing sweeter, and Ellie's smile bigger.

Andy and Jeannie's home seemed to bring out the best of our memories as well. Seemingly everyone had a story as rich as the character of the house to tell.

Over the course of the evening, I heard about Aunt Jeannie's father's Sherry Apple Pie recipe that afforded the family $10,000 as the winner of a national contest back in the '70s.


I heard about Moss' hometown of Carson City, Nevada, and how her family would drive to the original Sierra Nevada brewery to fill a couple buckets with beer for the week.

I heard about Uncle Andy's date with the heiress of a toilet inventor's fortune, A. Crapper, and her faux pas at the swankiest restaurant in Birmingham, Alabama - a request for 'catsup' when her beef wellington was dropped at the table.   

I heard about all the others who had received Oma's knitted socks before Ellie.

And I heard about the house and its champion - spending evenings and weekends restoring it by himself to something better than it ever was. An absolute masterpiece.

As we drove home, I started thinking about the magic a house can make. Especially the right one. With the right layout. And the right balance of decor. And I started thinking about one of the houses we saw on Saturday. A house that produced a sparkle in both of our eyes. Not the one with the dwarf-sized master closet. And not the one with the organ pipes in the yard.

The one with the beautiful woodwork. And big closets. And classic 1940s design. The one that I could imagine raising a family in. Where our kids would run down the spiral staircase and grab their coats and mittens out of the front hall closet. I wondered if everything would work out. And I quietly hoped I would be cooking in a kitchen with a beautiful bay window in April.

What will be, will be. And we'll find out more on Friday. For now, I'll continue to sweetly dream of my old dream house.

Falling Water

Although it's been in the best possible way, Thanksgiving weekend in Pittsburgh more or less consisted of two primal elements - eating and exercising. Feasting and attempting to counteract the thigh plumping consumption with vigorous daily activity. Hoping to achieve the improbable result of not gaining a pound even though you are well aware by the residual sugars in your mouth that you have done more than your part to kill three of the five pies served on Thanksgiving Day.

So after two plus days of the eat and run/walk/bounce the baby/throw the football/play lacrosse routine down, I felt like Saturday called for some culture. I felt like I needed a day of enlightenment where I could resurrect and relish in my degree in art and architectural history - a rare degree serving about .005% of the population.

Having previously toured all the museums in Pittsburgh with Peter, and given that it was one of the balmiest November days ever, I decided that we should venture outside of Pittsburgh, into the mountains, and onto the property of Falling Water, Frank Lloyd Wright's pivotal residential masterpiece built for the Kaufmann family in 1939 over Bear Run Falls. So my sister, Peter and I made a day trip out of it.

The little architectural excursion came at a perfect time actually, as I put the final details on the ranch renovation brief for our future contractor. Although nowhere near the scale and genius of Falling Water, there are aspects of our retro home that call to mind Wright - aspects that if redesigned under some of the principles of Falling Water, could help make it more than a box. 

First, the theme of organic architecture perfectly embodied in Falling Water - a retreat where man could truly be one with nature - with the sound, dynamism, and power of the Falls. Wright seamlessly fused inside and out: The woodland springs and landscaping flow naturally into the house; The boulders that the house was built upon almost magically emerge from the limestone floor; And the lines, textures and colors meld with its surroundings as if the home was always meant to be there.

Second, the open floor plan - another Wright signature. Wright was a strong proponent of family centered life, so in his homes he built community spaces free of walls, where the family could be united in space despite being segmented by their various activities. All was centered at the hearth though - the heart of the home - a warming, illuminating, massive element that brought character, charm, and togetherness to the house. 

Wright sought to destroy the box at Fallingwater. He hated 'the box.' (And in it's very nature, surely, would hate our ranch.) Through designing nooks and niches in the house, lowering the ceilings forcing your gaze outside, employing the circle and semicircle to soften the planar lines, and pushing glass and steel straight against the stone to diminish the role of the wall, he freed the house from corners and compartmentalization. Instead you want to continue to move through the house - and with it, from inside to outside, room to room, natural element to natural element.

Finally, Wright used cantilevers, trays more or less, solidified on immense boulders and thrust over the Falls like diving boards, plunging almost miraculously over space. The result is a house nearly floating in air, suspended over the falls. It is magical.

So, from Falling Water to add to the ranch renovation brief:

• Organic, open design that fuses inside and outside. 
• Need ways to destroy the seven or so smaller boxes that make up the big box we live in. 
• We don't have a hearth, but our stove is the heart of the house.
• We lack space - perhaps using a cantilever and adding a tray off the back could open the house up more. 
• Oh, and unlike Falling Water, stay on budget. But if you can find the skilled Falling Water laborers that cost 75 cents an hour, that would be great. 

At the end of our tour, we figured it had been long enough without a meal - we had earned our picnic. So we ate. And then moved on to Ohiopyle to hike it off.

Lo.