Loving imperfection

by Julie

Matt wrote last week about the garden we had at our old house in North Carolina. It was a sanctuary, our pride and joy. There aren’t many people who can say that the first house they ever bought was their dream house, but in my case it was. We had a 1923 Craftsman bungalow, full of quirky and lovable details. Some of the interior doors didn’t quite latch properly (much less lock), there wasn’t a right angle in the place, none of the three fireplaces worked, and two sump pumps were insufficient to keep the basement moisture-free. But there was so much to love in that house. The glass in the original mullioned windows had started to melt down in wavy ripples. It had gorgeous moldings and fat, worn floorboards. The wide front porch had room for an eclectic and sociable assortment of swings and rocking chairs. The mantle looked so beautiful decorated for Christmas. 

We got married in the backyard. We brought both of our babies home to that house. We built our family there. And yet it also came to feel like a heavy burden, requiring more time and money for upkeep than we had at the time. With a two-year-old and a newborn to care for, and a new job in a new town awaiting, selling that house felt like a blessed relief.

When we moved to Williamsburg, we didn’t even think we’d be able to afford a single-family house on our budget. And for a town with so many historic roots, older homes are surprisingly few and far between. It’s a maze of upscale gated communities with golf courses and clubhouses. More modest homes are mostly relegated to the fringes of the surrounding counties.

We had resigned ourselves to a townhouse when we discovered the house we eventually bought, which is an 1100-sq ft midget of a house, sprung from the same cookie cutter that shaped all of its neighbors. It sits on a postage stamp of a yard and its only semblance of architectural character is an odd vinyl fan that sits atop the front window and two shutters in a shade of maroon that dates the house unquestionably to the early 1990s.

In terms of low-maintenance living, this house fits the bill. Matt can mow the lawn with a weedeater. I can vacuum the whole house without unplugging the machine. We recently considered replacing the windows, which will be quite inexpensive given that there are only four windows in the entire house. 

We actually love the size. The house has a marvel of a layout, without a square foot of wasted or unnecessary space. A more minimal lifestyle suits us, and we were purging boxes of unused and unloved stuff before KonMari became a household term. A small house demands constant vigilance against clutter—and you don’t realize until you do it just how much freedom you find when you start letting things go. 

It took me a few years, but I’ve come to love this house. We put in new floors. We’ve painted almost every room. We built a raised vegetable bed. We have a plan to turn that tiny front yard into an explosion of perennials, with not a blade of grass to be seen. 

More importantly, we took our first walk to the bus stop at this house. We’ve spent many happy hours at the neighborhood pool, just a short walk down the road. We found a community of fellow parents through a beloved cooperative preschool. With my parents close by, my children get to grow up with grandparents a part of their daily lives. 

The house became ours, as surely as the old one did. It’s teaching us lessons about ourselves and providing space for our family to grow. I am so grateful for it.

Someday we’ll buy another wonky old house to love, and we’ll have chickens. And possibly goats, if Matt has his way.