A few years ago, our daughter asked me why we didn't have a new house. "One of those big ones, where everything works and all the bedrooms have bathrooms," she said.
Daughter didn't realize the impact of her words. To her, a real home was where the walls matched, there were no electrical cords snaked around rooms, and where the upstairs was heated as evenly as the downstairs. In other words, a house not like ours. I didn't say too much. For most of her friends, life in a gated community with matching garage doors and a bunch of rules is all they've ever known. It's not a bad way of life. One can't knock the notion of having one light switch instead of three, a laundry room in the main house, or walls that aren't a combination of new stucco and old paint. Instead, I shrugged. Then went back to cleaning the kitchen which hasn't changed since they day it was built.
Our house was finished in 1940 --a young sprog compared to the homes of many of my friends in the east, as well as the adobe house my husband was raised in. But around here, 1940 is charitably considered vintage. The couple who built this house, Dr. and Mrs. Cortez, were a young couple from Utah --children of farmers. They moved here after Dr. Cortez finished his PhD from MIT in electrical engineering. His job was at the local community college teaching science or engineering. They first owned a small house in downtown. Then, in 1938, they had the plans drawn up for this house.
It was a simple plan, and to many, the home reminds them of something found at Disneyland. It makes sense, since the workman who built this California interpretation of a Colonial house would someday be called upon to build Walt Disney's dream not too far away. The house looks like something that would fit in perfectly across from Carnation Plaza at Disneyland. As a friend remarked while standing upstairs, "My God, everything here is 7/8 scale!" Anyway, the house can only be described as a rabbit's warren of small rooms. There are lots of doors, loads of trimwork, and built ins throughout the house. The professor and his wife Elle even planned for a balcony off the bedroom. The better to see the hills out back, which then, were only dotted with wild grasses and cows. The view back then had to have been like one of those California impressionist paintings.
Construction was started but then fate intervened. The young professor was called to Washington DC by the US Navy to come work on secret this and that. Mrs. Cortez had barely gotten her pans in when they had to move. Lock, stock and barrel, they high tailed to Philadelphia, where Dr. Cortez and the family stayed for the duration of the war. They rented the house to a variety of families, corresponding only by mail. At times Dr. Cortez thought of selling the house. But Elle would say, "Over my dead body!"
The war ended, and sure enough, they came back home. The local community college was the beneficiary of plenty of GI's on the GI Bill, and so the good professor set to work. Teaching classes, then several years as its Dean. His wife went to work for Walt Disney. The woman who lived in a 7/8 scale house, went to work everyday as Disneyland's first nurse. They raised two daughters and a son, enjoyed life after the war, during a time of growth and prosperity. They planted a garden, their son roamed the hills with his friends. Dr. Cortez made a few adjustments to the house. The most curious one was cutting a small door between the garage and the laundry room. It measure 18" by 72" Not very big, but you see, they were neither tall nor wide. We still use it today.
Life was good, until Dr. Cortez died playing golf. Their son was all of 13. It was a difficult time, and I'm sure everyone looked at Elle as though she were going to move. Of course, she didn't. The house she and her husband had so lovingly planned and built, grew old with her. Eventually, she married again, changing her last name. Her new husband built a behemoth brick grill in the back yard --the kind you see in old movies. They aged together, and then one day, he died too. Again, everyone thought Elle would move, but she didn't. When the stairs got too hard to walk, she closed up the upstairs bedrooms and moved into the room where I'm writing this post. There's a daybed in here now, and I like to think of this as Elle's room.
Anyway, Elle only moved when her health was failing. Her children moved her into a nursing home. When she died, her son kept the house --turning it into a rental. Finally, twelve years later, he put it on the market. None of the realtors would deal with him. They said he wanted too much money.
I drove past on a Monday and called him. He rushed up from his home by the ocean. "There was something in your voice that just sounded right," he said. I walked around, and like the character in the Cary Grant movie, fell in love like Jim Blandings. I knew this was an emotional sale. I also knew he had not one, but three offers to buy it. I could offer less, but then risk not owning it. A house like this doesn't come on the market everyday, especially in a region beset by gated communities. By Wednesday, we had purchased it. The day it cleared escrow, he had to sign some papers. He faltered. He didn't want to sell it. We promised not to change too much --he said he'd like that very much. We have lived here for ten years. It hasn't changed too much, but every time I think of doing something, I wonder if the good professor and his wife would approve.
For sure, we've had our downtime with this house. The most notable was the day Elle's balcony leaked into the kitchen during a rainstorm. Our kids, ever resourceful, responded by breaking out an umbrella --unperturbed while eating their cereal. Daughter, whether she realizes it or not, is part of the history of this house. We are the second war family to own this house. When my husband upped and ran away to the Army at the age of 52, moving was not an option. "Over my dead body," I thought when the suggestion came to sell it. (You don't reach my age and not get stubborn).
Granted, It's not an easy home to live in, but unlike the homes where each one looks the same, it has character shaped by the times. No doubt, one day when my spirit is hovering up in heaven, she and her brother might sell the house to some other family. I just hope she's able to tell them the history of the house, as it was told to me by the professor's son.
Daughter didn't realize the impact of her words. To her, a real home was where the walls matched, there were no electrical cords snaked around rooms, and where the upstairs was heated as evenly as the downstairs. In other words, a house not like ours. I didn't say too much. For most of her friends, life in a gated community with matching garage doors and a bunch of rules is all they've ever known. It's not a bad way of life. One can't knock the notion of having one light switch instead of three, a laundry room in the main house, or walls that aren't a combination of new stucco and old paint. Instead, I shrugged. Then went back to cleaning the kitchen which hasn't changed since they day it was built.Our house was finished in 1940 --a young sprog compared to the homes of many of my friends in the east, as well as the adobe house my husband was raised in. But around here, 1940 is charitably considered vintage. The couple who built this house, Dr. and Mrs. Cortez, were a young couple from Utah --children of farmers. They moved here after Dr. Cortez finished his PhD from MIT in electrical engineering. His job was at the local community college teaching science or engineering. They first owned a small house in downtown. Then, in 1938, they had the plans drawn up for this house.
It was a simple plan, and to many, the home reminds them of something found at Disneyland. It makes sense, since the workman who built this California interpretation of a Colonial house would someday be called upon to build Walt Disney's dream not too far away. The house looks like something that would fit in perfectly across from Carnation Plaza at Disneyland. As a friend remarked while standing upstairs, "My God, everything here is 7/8 scale!" Anyway, the house can only be described as a rabbit's warren of small rooms. There are lots of doors, loads of trimwork, and built ins throughout the house. The professor and his wife Elle even planned for a balcony off the bedroom. The better to see the hills out back, which then, were only dotted with wild grasses and cows. The view back then had to have been like one of those California impressionist paintings. Construction was started but then fate intervened. The young professor was called to Washington DC by the US Navy to come work on secret this and that. Mrs. Cortez had barely gotten her pans in when they had to move. Lock, stock and barrel, they high tailed to Philadelphia, where Dr. Cortez and the family stayed for the duration of the war. They rented the house to a variety of families, corresponding only by mail. At times Dr. Cortez thought of selling the house. But Elle would say, "Over my dead body!"
The war ended, and sure enough, they came back home. The local community college was the beneficiary of plenty of GI's on the GI Bill, and so the good professor set to work. Teaching classes, then several years as its Dean. His wife went to work for Walt Disney. The woman who lived in a 7/8 scale house, went to work everyday as Disneyland's first nurse. They raised two daughters and a son, enjoyed life after the war, during a time of growth and prosperity. They planted a garden, their son roamed the hills with his friends. Dr. Cortez made a few adjustments to the house. The most curious one was cutting a small door between the garage and the laundry room. It measure 18" by 72" Not very big, but you see, they were neither tall nor wide. We still use it today.
Life was good, until Dr. Cortez died playing golf. Their son was all of 13. It was a difficult time, and I'm sure everyone looked at Elle as though she were going to move. Of course, she didn't. The house she and her husband had so lovingly planned and built, grew old with her. Eventually, she married again, changing her last name. Her new husband built a behemoth brick grill in the back yard --the kind you see in old movies. They aged together, and then one day, he died too. Again, everyone thought Elle would move, but she didn't. When the stairs got too hard to walk, she closed up the upstairs bedrooms and moved into the room where I'm writing this post. There's a daybed in here now, and I like to think of this as Elle's room.
Anyway, Elle only moved when her health was failing. Her children moved her into a nursing home. When she died, her son kept the house --turning it into a rental. Finally, twelve years later, he put it on the market. None of the realtors would deal with him. They said he wanted too much money.I drove past on a Monday and called him. He rushed up from his home by the ocean. "There was something in your voice that just sounded right," he said. I walked around, and like the character in the Cary Grant movie, fell in love like Jim Blandings. I knew this was an emotional sale. I also knew he had not one, but three offers to buy it. I could offer less, but then risk not owning it. A house like this doesn't come on the market everyday, especially in a region beset by gated communities. By Wednesday, we had purchased it. The day it cleared escrow, he had to sign some papers. He faltered. He didn't want to sell it. We promised not to change too much --he said he'd like that very much. We have lived here for ten years. It hasn't changed too much, but every time I think of doing something, I wonder if the good professor and his wife would approve.
For sure, we've had our downtime with this house. The most notable was the day Elle's balcony leaked into the kitchen during a rainstorm. Our kids, ever resourceful, responded by breaking out an umbrella --unperturbed while eating their cereal. Daughter, whether she realizes it or not, is part of the history of this house. We are the second war family to own this house. When my husband upped and ran away to the Army at the age of 52, moving was not an option. "Over my dead body," I thought when the suggestion came to sell it. (You don't reach my age and not get stubborn).
Granted, It's not an easy home to live in, but unlike the homes where each one looks the same, it has character shaped by the times. No doubt, one day when my spirit is hovering up in heaven, she and her brother might sell the house to some other family. I just hope she's able to tell them the history of the house, as it was told to me by the professor's son.
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1 comments:
Lovely post! I hope you post pictures of your unique house :)
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