House Hold
At a party the other night a friend, an architect, asked me, “Do you
and Richard plan on completing your house or is it an ongoing project?” I
didn’t understand the question then nor many sober hours later. No house should
ever be completed.
My dad always tells the story of the first playhouse he built for my sister
and me. The tale is meant to celebrate the power of a child’s imagination, but
it always leaves me feeling a little like an ungrateful schmuck.
He built us a fabulous two-story playhouse in our backyard in Houston. I was
only five at the time, but I can still remember the floor plan, the little
windows that opened, and the efficiency kitchen with running water in the sink.
When Cindy and I took possession, it was perfect and completely furnished. Then
my dad came home one day to find us settling into a clearing in the middle of
the huge wax-leaf ligustrum. We’d borrowed dishes and linens from the playhouse
which we hung creatively from the branches. We spent the rest of the summer in
the bushes; our dog Sam took over the abandoned house. Rather than be
disappointed, my dad was thrilled with our self-sufficiency and creativity.
When we moved to three acres on Galveston Bay, it wasn’t long before Dad was
building us another playhouse, but this time he stuck it up in a tree. It was a
12’x12′, screened-in, and roofed tree house. It was plush by wax-leaf-ligustrum
standards, but this time he merely provided us with a shell that we could
decorate and furnish with every piece of strange material that floated up on
the beach. We even spent the night in it. When we moved five years later, the
treehouse was still a work in progress.
A completed home/playhouse/treehouse is a stagnant affair. It’s like saying
you’ve completed your life; you might as well be dead, right? In the case of a
house, you might as well sell it. Or perhaps this is the way I justify the fact
that our baseboards aren’t nailed down and probably never will be or the lack
of curtains in our bedroom or the absence of trim around an exterior door.
If you feel hemmed in by too much closure in your abode, may I recommend a
shed? For inspiration, check out the book Cabin Fever, by Marie-France
Boyer (Thames and Hudson, $19.95). The featured “sheds and shelters, huts and
hideaways” from around the world ought to rekindle your creativity. And their
lack of baseboards (or floors or windows) certainly doesn’t make them any less
magical. These little gems would laugh at the concept of completion.
Write me at Suzebe@aol.com or at the Chronicleat PO Box 49066,
Austin, TX 78765.
This article appears in July 28 • 1995 and July 28 • 1995 (Cover).