Style 16

In 1993 my husband and I bought our first and (so far) only house. A one story structure built in 1907, it was the first home on the block, perhaps the first in the neighborhood. The kitchen, back rooms and side porch were add-ons that extended long behind the original front, making it look like a double-wide shotgun shack except for the small portico over the front door. Whoever built the place must have been a novice: every fixture and switch plate was slightly askew, and every room had a DIY aura that subsequent owners, us included, didn't have the cash or wherewithal to fix. Real estate parlance classified houses such as ours "style 16" – meaning, it had no style. We lived there for 12 years.

By 2005 our energy for home ownership had fizzled. The little fixing we could afford amounted to a new roof and an exterior paint job, which set us back $16,000. We couldn't figure out how other people managed to remodel kitchens and bathrooms and make changes that were actual preferences rather than necessities. Lawn mowing, constant garden weeding, keeping the flood-prone basement dry, and sitting near single-pane windows were other hindrances to an affordable future at this address. Additionally, we were not handy with much more than the most basic repairs. I also sensed a personal crisis/transformation coming that demanded fewer working hours and therefore, much less income. For these reasons and more, continued mortgage payments seemed absurd, and so we sold the house and moved to a rental home.

Sometimes I drive by our old homestead to see what's what, and over the last four years it has fallen into greater disrepair than ever. The young couple (with new baby) who bought it had terrible luck after the purchase, with damaging floods, interior remodel projects on hold for years, and as far as I could tell, not much income. At one point the place was so ripped up that only one bedroom and the kitchen were livable, everything else in some process of being ruined, torn down or fixed up. My beautiful rock garden, once the pride of the block, became a huge patch of weeds.

How bittersweet, then, to drive by recently and come upon a house transformed. Almost gone are the peeling, ancient clapboards, in their place pale yellow siding as smooth and fresh as a new stick of butter. The rotting wrap-around front porch is now a gorgeous new deck with a huge arbor and trellis, the kind that bestows casual elegance to even the plainest houses. The front door, which was starting to split down the middle when we moved, is now a graceful new entrance, and the windows have been replaced with stylish double-paned affairs ten times better than the aluminum-framed ones we had. Even the knocked-down walls in the living room appeared to be restored, freshly painted and pleasantly lit.

I drove away feeling betrayed. Where did they come up with the money for all this? I wondered. They were struggling, just like us. How come they suddenly got it together and we couldn't? Four years after the sale, we are living in a 2 bedroom apartment, barely making ends meet. This former millstone around my neck – this money pit of a house – became an object of envy. I felt left behind, and discouraged.

To make matters worse, later that evening an acquaintance hosted a painting party in her new studio. She had just moved with her two young sons from a tiny apartment to a new address, which I approached from the back alley adjacent to the studio. The space was wonderful: stainless cupboards and sink, ample and bright moveable track lighting, lots of storage, and other comfy touches including heat and large windows. What I didn't realize was that this new studio was attached to her new house in progress, custom designed and one of the more beautiful homes I've seen. Every inch of it had been thoughtfully hand picked and coordinated, including a water-garden courtyard in the back, stainless steel appliances, radiant heat in the floors, floor to ceiling triple-paned windows, beautifully tiled bathrooms with a huge clear shower enclosure . . . not garish but simple, clean-lined elegance and quality everywhere. My house envy surged with each passing minute.


When we came to the master bedroom and bath, I noticed the sauna next to the shower. My friend told me she had installed it to help with her pain. "Pain?" I said. "Are you okay?" She asked me if I remembered the car accident. Only vaguely, I said, thinking that maybe she mentioned it, briefly, about a year ago. With prompting, she went on to tell me exactly what happened: about how she'd been rear-ended by the party at fault; about the concussion that doctors missed diagnosing for six months, and the resulting brain damage. About the daily physical ache that she kept hidden from most people. About the days on end she spent in bed with migraines, the emergency medical trips still occurring, about how her life was divided into two parts: before and after.


I left with a much different feeling about house envy. Are the auto or malpractice insurance companies paying for my friend's new home? We didn't talk about that. But it doesn't matter. She paid for her house with more than money. As for our former 100-year-old house, who knows what circumstances brought it into the 21st - well, ok, 20th - century. It’s like that ancient Chinese folk tale about good luck and bad luck. Often, what looks like one, in time turns out to be the other.

And if you recognize the wisdom of that ancient parable, you also know the value of gratitude. Even if "style 16" is all you have.