Making Home

On the Redemption of the Ordinary

I called her Plumport. Partly because of the ornamental plum tree some previous owner planted outside the kitchen window. And partly because of what I wanted for her—to be a port in the storm of life, a safe harbor for me and for everyone who passed through her doors. She was the first home I ever owned. And I loved her.

She became mine, four months before my thirtieth birthday. I had no husband then, no babies either. But I wanted a home of my own just the same. Not because I was looking for a good investment or to save money on rent, but because I wanted a place to belong.

After eleven years of dorm rooms and rentals, I was tired of leases and moving and spending money making fixes that landlords wouldn’t make. I was even more tired of drifting through life, from college to grad school to work, with no family or home to anchor me in place. I wanted a home that was mine, a place that I could love and shape into something beautiful.

So, in January of 2005, two of my roommates and I said goodbye to the sweet but shabby rental which had housed us during grad school and moved two blocks east.

Our destination was a cozy old Craftsman Foursquare, built in 1915. She had a wide front porch and leaded glass windows, oak French doors that separated the living room and dining room, a whole wall of original built in cabinetry in the kitchen, and even a tiny back stairway with a hobbit like door at the top, through which you had to duck if you wanted to pass through to the landing on the other side.

Out back was the ornamental plum tree, from which the house took its name and which exploded into a riot of lacy pink flowers every spring. Upstairs, the bathroom still had its original tile—a black and white porcelain basketweave. Surrounding that bathroom were four small bedrooms, while two floors below was a basement just waiting to be finished.

Of course, there also was electrical wiring installed when the French were fighting the Germans on the Western Front. The walls upstairs and down were cracking. The ceilings in each of the four bedrooms were collapsing. And the kitchen bore more than a passing resemblance to a crack den, with a broken stove, leaking sink, and crumbling walls.

She needed some work. But that was okay. She was mine, and I knew once the work was complete, she would be beautiful. She would be home.

Making Home

During my first few months in the house, I fixed most of the electrical problems, but not all. Working alongside contractors, I learned how to repair plaster and mud dry wall. We patched the walls, installed new ceilings, repaired the old double hung windows, restored the woodwork, and finished the basement. The following year, I nursed a broken heart by restoring the kitchen—not the kind of fancy restoration you see on Instagram, but a more humble one, that corresponded to the less than stellar property values in the neighborhood.

After that, every year brought a new project. But, bit by bit, the home became every inch of the Craftsman beauty I knew she could be. She also became the home I wanted her to be, where friends were welcomed, fed, and loved.