I turned the corner just in time to see a wrecking ball come crashing into my dream home. The iron orb cut a path across the exterior wall and lumber exploded from beneath the bricks. What was once the living room stood under the open air and I stared into it as though I were peering into a dollhouse. For a brief moment I saw my sofa in the middle of the room and all the friends I would have invited over to gather around it. Just then the ball swung back and I knew there was no turning back. The house would be nothing but rubble in a matter of minutes.
I live in a 400 square foot apartment. It’s nothing fancy, but the floor-to-ceiling windows provide a dandy view of downtown Toronto and the water runs hot most of the time. Were an ant to post it on Craigslist, he might even use the words “spacious” and “palatial” in the listing. Unfortunately those descriptors do not apply to me, given that I’ve crammed my 400 square feet with 600 square feet of stuff. Sometimes it feels like the walls are caving in on me. I try to remind myself that I’m lucky to have a place to call home, but that’s not always easy when there’s no place to hang my hat. I’d far rather have a home to call home.
Whenever I watch the TV show Hoarders, I can’t help but wonder if space is the issue. If Brenda simply upgraded from her one bedroom condo to a five bedroom bungalow, perhaps her collection of used diapers wouldn’t be such a burden. I’ve always thrown away far more than I’ve kept, yet every time I open a closet door I’m buried by an avalanche of junk. If I had the rumpus room I’ve always dreamed about, however, that junk wouldn’t be junk at all. My books would look scholarly on a wall lined with shelves, but when perched atop a suitcase filled with winter boots, they’re nothing more than a hazard.
I’m obsessed with HGTV and the plethora of real estate shows on it. While the titles differ, these shows are basically all the same. Couples examine three properties, weighing the pros and cons of each, and then make an offer on whichever one is just outside of their budget. They justify their splurge by committing to cut Starbucks out of their daily routine, but what they’re really committing to is divorce proceedings. Soon the pressure of meeting a mortgage that cannot be met, in addition to caffeine withdrawal, will drive the couple apart.
The home I would choose never gets chosen.
“It only has three bathrooms?” the wife says as she sticks out her bottom lip.
“And you call this a closet?” the husband adds as he maneuvers his pot belly through the doors.
“Yes,” says the real estate agent. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Perhaps if I could afford a house with more bathrooms than dwellers, I’d also be offended by three toilets and look-in closets, but I don’t think so. I favor modest homes with bathrooms that are shared and kitchens built for crowding. I’m also partial to older homes that include memories with the deed. I’m a sucker for coffee stains on counter tops and height charts etched into thresholds.
After I’ve picked out my imaginary home from the reject pile, I switch over to the Bravo network and decorate it. Hunky contractors in tank tops work up a sweat as they apply grout and lay pipe. Bitchy interior designers in push-up bras paint the walls and put throw pillows on anything that stands still. Then perky hosts in love with themselves tell the couples to “open their eyes.” The transformations are always amazing, but the houses never resemble the ones they fell in love with in the first place.
Whatever happened to walls? Second only to granite counter tops, “open concept” is at the top of every wish list these days. I don’t know about you, but I prefer my concepts closed. Without walls, where am I supposed to go when I have the urge to roll my eyes? We live in a generation that constantly demands an audience and privacy is quickly becoming a thing of the past. We need to know what’s happening at all times, even if it means knocking down walls to do it. But the more we knock down, the more we desperately search for a place to hide. As far as I’m concerned, walls don’t keep us apart — they keep us together.
My penchant for real estate started early. When I was boy, Grandma Hayward would point at dilapidated farm houses as we whizzed by them on the highway. Even though these homes were falling apart — if they hadn’t already — she could still see the beauty in them. The walls leaned and the wood sagged, but just as memories lean and sag, they still existed. One day she pointed at a particularly grand home that was barely standing on its foundation. It was surrounded by huge maple trees that she remembered not being so huge. I suggested that the two of us should move into it together someday. She looked me directly in the eyes for a long time before hers drifted back to the house.
“I’d like that,” she said. “I’d like that a lot.”
My dream home stood at the corner of Broadway and Rowley in Toronto. It wasn’t very big, but it was quaint and it was cozy. The brick walls were covered in ivy and the front stoop drooped from all the visitors who had stood there. As I watched it get scooped up by a bulldozer, I could already visualize the house that would go up in its place. Six months later, I was proven right. It looks exactly like the one next to it and the one next to that. Even the doors match.
I have nothing against new houses, so long as they stand long enough to become homes. But when it comes time for me to buy, I want one with history. I want one with character. I want one with walls.
I’d like that. I’d like that a lot.
I live in a 400 square foot apartment. It’s nothing fancy, but the floor-to-ceiling windows provide a dandy view of downtown Toronto and the water runs hot most of the time. Were an ant to post it on Craigslist, he might even use the words “spacious” and “palatial” in the listing. Unfortunately those descriptors do not apply to me, given that I’ve crammed my 400 square feet with 600 square feet of stuff. Sometimes it feels like the walls are caving in on me. I try to remind myself that I’m lucky to have a place to call home, but that’s not always easy when there’s no place to hang my hat. I’d far rather have a home to call home.
Whenever I watch the TV show Hoarders, I can’t help but wonder if space is the issue. If Brenda simply upgraded from her one bedroom condo to a five bedroom bungalow, perhaps her collection of used diapers wouldn’t be such a burden. I’ve always thrown away far more than I’ve kept, yet every time I open a closet door I’m buried by an avalanche of junk. If I had the rumpus room I’ve always dreamed about, however, that junk wouldn’t be junk at all. My books would look scholarly on a wall lined with shelves, but when perched atop a suitcase filled with winter boots, they’re nothing more than a hazard.
I’m obsessed with HGTV and the plethora of real estate shows on it. While the titles differ, these shows are basically all the same. Couples examine three properties, weighing the pros and cons of each, and then make an offer on whichever one is just outside of their budget. They justify their splurge by committing to cut Starbucks out of their daily routine, but what they’re really committing to is divorce proceedings. Soon the pressure of meeting a mortgage that cannot be met, in addition to caffeine withdrawal, will drive the couple apart.
The home I would choose never gets chosen.
“It only has three bathrooms?” the wife says as she sticks out her bottom lip.
“And you call this a closet?” the husband adds as he maneuvers his pot belly through the doors.
“Yes,” says the real estate agent. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Perhaps if I could afford a house with more bathrooms than dwellers, I’d also be offended by three toilets and look-in closets, but I don’t think so. I favor modest homes with bathrooms that are shared and kitchens built for crowding. I’m also partial to older homes that include memories with the deed. I’m a sucker for coffee stains on counter tops and height charts etched into thresholds.
After I’ve picked out my imaginary home from the reject pile, I switch over to the Bravo network and decorate it. Hunky contractors in tank tops work up a sweat as they apply grout and lay pipe. Bitchy interior designers in push-up bras paint the walls and put throw pillows on anything that stands still. Then perky hosts in love with themselves tell the couples to “open their eyes.” The transformations are always amazing, but the houses never resemble the ones they fell in love with in the first place.
Whatever happened to walls? Second only to granite counter tops, “open concept” is at the top of every wish list these days. I don’t know about you, but I prefer my concepts closed. Without walls, where am I supposed to go when I have the urge to roll my eyes? We live in a generation that constantly demands an audience and privacy is quickly becoming a thing of the past. We need to know what’s happening at all times, even if it means knocking down walls to do it. But the more we knock down, the more we desperately search for a place to hide. As far as I’m concerned, walls don’t keep us apart — they keep us together.
My penchant for real estate started early. When I was boy, Grandma Hayward would point at dilapidated farm houses as we whizzed by them on the highway. Even though these homes were falling apart — if they hadn’t already — she could still see the beauty in them. The walls leaned and the wood sagged, but just as memories lean and sag, they still existed. One day she pointed at a particularly grand home that was barely standing on its foundation. It was surrounded by huge maple trees that she remembered not being so huge. I suggested that the two of us should move into it together someday. She looked me directly in the eyes for a long time before hers drifted back to the house.
“I’d like that,” she said. “I’d like that a lot.”
My dream home stood at the corner of Broadway and Rowley in Toronto. It wasn’t very big, but it was quaint and it was cozy. The brick walls were covered in ivy and the front stoop drooped from all the visitors who had stood there. As I watched it get scooped up by a bulldozer, I could already visualize the house that would go up in its place. Six months later, I was proven right. It looks exactly like the one next to it and the one next to that. Even the doors match.
I have nothing against new houses, so long as they stand long enough to become homes. But when it comes time for me to buy, I want one with history. I want one with character. I want one with walls.
I’d like that. I’d like that a lot.
