Hugh Howard - House-Dreams

The Story of an Amateur Builder
and Two Novice Apprentices and How
They Turned an Overgrown Blackberry Patch,
Ten Truckloads of Lumber, a Keg of Cut Nails,
and an Antique Staircase into a Real Home

HUGH HOWARD

ALGONQUIN BOOKS
OF CHAPEL HILL
2001

Published by
ALGONQUIN BOOKS OF CHAPEL HILL
Post Office Box 2225
Chapel Hill, North Carolina
27515-2225

a division of
WORKMAN PUBLISHING
708 Broadway
New York, New York 10003

2001 by Hugh Howard.
All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America.
Published simultaneously in Canada
by Thomas Allen & Son Limited.
Designed by Amy Ruth Buchanan.

Images appearing on
1994 by Michael Fredericks. All other photographs and
architectural renderings courtesy of Hugh Howard.

Library of Congress
Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Howard, Hugh, 1952
House-dreams : the story of an amateur builder and two novice
apprentices and how they turned an overgrown blackberry patch,
ten truckloads of lumber, a keg of cut nails, and an antique staircase
into a real home / by Hugh Howard.
p. cm.
ISBN 1-56512-293-3
1. House constructionCase studies. 2. House construction
Amateurs manuals. 3. Howard, Hugh, 1952Homes and haunts.
I. Title.
TH4815.H69 2001
690'.8372'092dc21
00-054827

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition

For my wife,
BETSY,
and our daughters,
SARAH AND ELIZABETH

PROLOGUE:
The Mayflower

EPILOGUE:
The World As We Would Have It

HOUSE-DREAMS

When the stagecoach topped the hill from Monterey,
and we looked down through pines and sea-fogs
on Carmel Bay, it was evident that we had come
without knowing it to our inevitable place.
Robinson Jeffers

Major decisions often get made for small reasons. The day we resolved to build a house for ourselves demonstrates how the little can beget the big. The impetus for one of the most momentous decisions of our lives proved to be a tiny wildflower.

My wife, Betsy, and I were walking in the woods that spring day in 1992. Our one-and-a-half-year-old daughter, Sarah, rode happily in the child carrier on my back, kicking me in the ribs each time she exclaimed at spying something new.

We were walking there as prospective land buyers. For some years, Betsy and I had considered building a house for ourselves. As we scanned the terrain that afternoon, looking for a suitable building site, my mind was busy with lots of questions. One of them was, What will the house look like? In the past, we had repeatedly discussed what we wanted, but no single resolution had been reached. Other questions that offered themselves were, How many bedrooms? How long will it take to build a house? Can we afford to do it? We knew I would be the builder in order to save money, but that, too, raised a question: Do I, having never built a house from the ground up, have the skill and energy to do it and do it well?

Since Sarahs birth, our lives had been largely consumed by the unfamiliar joys of parenthood. We knew that, despite our share of sleepless nights, it was a golden time, and we let the daily discoveries wash over us. Just days before our little walk in the woods, though, we had gained a powerful reason to rouse ourselves from our languor.

We had been talking about how cramped our house had begun to feel with Sarahs newfound mobility and her ever-growing array of toys. I was sorting papers on my desk while we talked, but something in Betsys manner caused me to look up. Her face was impassive when she said, With another child in the house, we will really feel the squeeze. She fell quiet a moment (thinking back on it now, I realize it was truly a pregnant pause). We should probably think about another bedroom, she added.

Her pregnancy was news to me, though it wasnt unexpected. With an embrace and a few words, we reassured each other that we both felt having another baby was a fine thing.

The news had led me to follow up on overdue resolutions, to make the phone calls and have the conversations that led to our hike in the woods.

We walked beneath untamed evergreen trees, mostly hemlock and white pine, guided by the bright orange ribbons of surveyors tape that marked the boundary. Preoccupied with worries about the cost per acre and property-tax rates, I only half saw what I was supposed to be examining. But Betsy, as usual, was paying attention to the details. She knelt down, peering intently at the ground.

She called to me, Whats this flower?

I recognized it immediately as a mayflower, a plant my mother had pointed out to me on childhood walks in the New England woods. Also known as the trailing arbutus, its in the heath family, which boasts some fancy members, including the azaleas and rhododendrons. Compared to them, the mayflower is the forgotten stepsister.

Betsy smelled the flowerthe fragrance of the mayflower is captivating. We helped Sarah out of the backpack so she could smell it, too. Instinctively she reached out to grasp the delicate flower, but she was distracted with talk of its shape.

When Europeans settled in North America in the seventeenth century, the mayflower was commonplace. But no longer. Botanists believe its rarity is the result of the plants dislike of disturbance. Lumbering and grazingsins characteristic of the idealized pastoral pastrendered it scarce.

The sighting of that flower brought us to a decision about that piece of land in a way that monetary calculations could not. The mayflowers complex nature had a special appeal to me. The trailing arbutus was local, perfectly adapted and suited to its setting. It didnt come from someplace else, unlike so many other members of the heath family that were transported from their native soils in Asia. I liked the paradox that the woody-stalked creeper with the leathery, hairy leaves seemed such a natural and permanent part of the landscape, yet was so transient.

By the time we returned home, Betsy and I had decided independently to buy that land and to build our home there. In retrospect, I understand that we aspired to the condition of the mayflower. We wanted to create something local. I wanted to build a house that was adapted to the climate of the northeastern United States and to the microclimate of our hills. I wanted Sarah and her unborn sibling to feel as if we belonged to this place. Like the trailing arbutus, we wanted to set down roots and blend into our environs. And we wouldnt have to disturb the mayflowerit was well away from the heart of the property where we would build.

We sensed those wooded acres were our place, and only half knowing how much work it would be, we set about building our house and establishing our home there.

This book is about that process.

Life can only be understood backwards;
but it must be lived forwards.
Sren Kierkegaard

The rumble of its diesel engine was audible before the truck appeared. More than a year had been required to take title to the mayflower property and to get ready to build. But on this July morning, walking along the rough cart road that was to be our driveway, I was going to meet the man who would dig the foundation hole for our new house.