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Moving Day: Note the wagon-wheel light fixture

Buying a house sits right there on the top of virtually every American’s dream list. For the self-employed creative, it can be a daunting process (and we’ll talk about mortgages and other icky business issues in another post).

But today, I’m thinking about the process of choosing a house, and I’ve come up with the idea that we creative types are at a distinct disadvantage — or is it advantage? — when choosing the house that will become our Home Sweet Home. 

You be the judge. 

Take your basic linear thinker. I’m not trying to pigeonhole anyone here, but I’m  talking along the lines of your stereotypical accountant — Someone who sees the world as logical and orderly. When Mr. and  Ms. Logical go to buy a house, they arrive prepared with a list of  “must haves.”  And their “must haves” are mostly in line with lots of other people’s “must haves.”  So they want a nice private master bath, and a “media room” and a backyard big enough to play in but not too big to mow, and they want appliances from the latest status kitchen appliance maker (or if necessary, affordable knock-offs).  Their budget may dictate just how much of their list they get to have, but in the end, what they end up with will look a lot like what they imagined, if maybe a wee bit smaller.  For the most part, your basic home-buyer isn’t going to say, “Oh, look honey, I know we decided on a three bedroom split level with attached garage, but just look at that cute little yurt!”

Us arty types, on the other hand — we’re all about the yurt.

Or the possibilities of it. 

The real estate agents can see us coming a mile away. They hear the word “artist” and every crumbling outbuilding (originally used to milk cows in 1782) becomes a “potential studo.”   A writer might fit perfectly in that basement with the not-quite-six-foot ceilings — writers sit down all day don’t they? As for a  musician – - That house on top of “You-can’t-get-there-from-here Hill ” would be perfect.  No neighbors to complain about the late night drumming….  And so what if there are no services like cable TV, high speed Internet, or  cell-phone reception: Artists need solitude, no?  

And we play right along with it. A house with a jacuzzi in the living room? How original.  An apartment with no kitchen sink ? (Don’t laugh — A musician friend of mine didn’t happen to notice this little quirk when she signed a lease, and ended up washing her dishes in the bathroom.) A three-story home where the first story was once used as a barbershop? How quaint — except that the fixtures are all 75 years old, and the property is now zoned residential. (Not to mention: What DOES one do with the ruins of a 75-year old barbershop?)

“Imagine the possibilities,” the real estate agents gush, and we do…  After all, if there’s one thing we’re good at, it’s imagining things. We’re the ones who see a leaky basement and imagine a swimming pool. We see the old barbershop, and hear a quartet.

I got lucky. When I look back at the houses I was shown in my quest for a home, I feel like I dodged a barrage of bullets, each one a different ridiculous house with a different ridiculous quirk.  And that’s saying something, if you could see the house I ended up in:  A homeowner-built ski chalet with lots of what the real estate agent referred to as “personality.”

Personality is a good thing — in a person. In a house, not so much.  

When Mr. and Ms. Logical are ready to take their next step on the ladder of American dreams, they won’t have any trouble selling their split level.  Someone else may have to update their Corian to marble, or their granite to concrete, or maybe it will be time for the newest color in kitchen appliances. But there will be a next person. 

I’m pretty sure there will be a next person to fall in love with my house,  just like I did. But it won’t be Mr. and Ms. Logical. There isn’t a single thing about my house that is standard. Everything is oversized and overscale, from the 50-foot long living room to the 18-foot tall fireplace. It has wide-planked pecan (I was told) wood floors that would be near impossible to replace, barnboard walls (chestnut, we think) salvaged from a falling-down barn, and thick stone floors (also salvaged) in the basement. And a 6-foot diameter wagon-wheel light fixture hangs from the ceiling — taken, I was told, from a local slaughterhouse. (I was going to get rid of it, but truth is, it has grown on me, and it perfectly fits the house. The native American dreamcatcher we have hung from  it seems to have dispelled any bad karma.)  And the kitchen? From the cracked laminate countertops to the Rube Goldberg contraption that functions as an exhaust  fan, we are talking one big  make-over-in-the-making.

And THIS is the most “normal house” I even considered buying. Fortunately, I plan to stay here forever. My house is perfect for two work-at home creatives. It is big and open, with enough space to offer privacy. It has enough room for 20 people to jam together, and for office desks to be tucked into corners where they look out on the view, but don’t get in the way. There is space for two pianos and an organ, and two people can give music lessons at the same time, or one can write and one can teach. There’s an outbuilding that may one day become a guesthouse, and a garage with an unfinished second floor we might someday turn into a recording studio.  And yes, it is located on top of “You Can’t Get There From Here Hill,” which ices over every winter and washes out every spring, and where our nearest neighbor just happens to be a drummer.  Sometimes, on summer nights when the windows are open, we can hear him practicing. One of these days, we will make time to play together.

It’s true, this house is not for everyone.  But when, and if, it is ever time to move, I have complete confidence that some other creative type will wander in — and immediately “imagine the possibilities.”