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When I tell people that my house is more than 110 years old, they always say things like, “Oh, I love old houses. They have so much character.”
They are, indeed, oozing with character.
“But which character?” you might ask.
Well, I’ll tell you. My house bears a striking resemblance to Norma Desmond, the washed-up, silent film actress who dreams of a comeback in Buddy Wilder’s movie “Sunset Boulevard.”
When we first bought her (meaning the house) nearly a decade ago, she was already old, creaky and a bit neglected. She had good bones, but her facade had been swallowed in a jungle of ivy. She was overpainted and overlandscaped, like a woman wearing too much makeup in broad daylight.
We got right to work. Norma Desmond was a generous host, but the first order of business was sealing all the cracks, because we didn’t want birds living in the attic. We repaired leaky sinks and broken windows. We installed a new heating system and insulation and gave the interior a fresh coat of paint.
As we got to know her and settled in, we peeled back her layers and found treasures. Original pine flooring under the stained carpet. Original double-hung windows under the heavy window treatments. Endless potential.
After several years, she was looking better but showing her wrinkles. It wasn’t her fault. After all, she was built when Woodrow Wilson was president and people thought mustard poultices cured congestion.
We decided that our aging dame needed a glam up, like one of those movie stars who disappears for six months and comes back with a new face.
As anyone who has attempted home renovation knows, we became victims to the contractor creep. This is nothing like the Spanish flu, which was also around when our house was built. Contractor creep is a malady that involves starting one project only to find that you are soon renovating everything.
We hired contractors for a kitchen remodel. That’s all. Then the contractors removed all the walls and said something casual like, “It’s amazing this section of the house hasn’t fallen down.” They had to do a few minor tweaks, like drilling four feet into the foundation to shore it up.
Their next comment was really funny, along the lines of, “Did you know there are live wires under the cabinets where mice chewed away the insulation?” A few electrical upgrades later, we could finally get to the part of the remodel for which they had been hired.
The kitchen was coming along nicely when we realized the rest of our house was going to look shabby by comparison. I know I’m stretching this metaphor beyond its capacity, but it’s like a movie star coming to the red carpet in a Valentino dress and bathroom slippers.
Before we knew it, we were replacing the 50-year-old toilets, retiling the shower and building new bookcases in the living room.
By this time, our kids were confusing our contractor, Nick, with a house guest who had overstayed his welcome. We talked about adoption, but he said that at some point he really should return to his own family.
That was a few years ago, long enough to forget the trauma of that renovation and decide that we needed another. After all, we’d done so much to the interior of the home, but the outside needed its time in the spotlight. What can I say? This house is a bit of a diva.
“More work?” my husband asked, dubious.
“Just a quick exterior paint job,” I promised. “A fresh coat and some crisp white trim. They say that white is the new black.”
Our painter, Enrique, agreed that it would be a fast job.
“Ten or twelve days, tops,” he told us.
That was two months ago.
“Mom,” my son said the other day. “Our house looks like it’s been vandalized.”
“Why would you say that?” I shouted. I had to shout because our painter has now become our roofer and is sitting over our heads replacing a portion of the roof that we found rotted through. There are ladders leaning against all four sides of the house, and both our front and back yards are a minefield of decking, paint buckets, saw horses, tarps and power tools.
“Things always get worse before they get better,” I assured him.
“But which door am I allowed to enter?” he asked. “Three of them are covered in plastic.”
“Use the back door, the farthest one. But don’t go out on your balcony. Enrique is rebuilding them because they were a hazard.”
He left to go climb through the closest open window.
“Just you wait,” I called after him. “I have a vision.”
I’ve been telling my family this for 10 years. When we gave my dad a tour shortly after we bought it, all the blood drained from his face. I said, “Just you wait!”
And wait they have! In the intervening decade, my kids have mostly grown up and moved out and I’ve sprouted a head of gray hairs, but the house is looking better than ever. Sure, there was the four months where we had to wash the dishes in the claw-footed bathtub. The whir of a circular saw has become the soundtrack to our lives. The children may look at our family picture and wonder how we left out Nick and Enrique.
But these old houses. I love them. They not only have character, they build character.
In the meantime, our own Norma Desmond is aging backwards. A few more decades of repairs and she’ll be ready for her close-up, Mr. DeMille.
