This House Is My Home, Quirks And All

By CHRISTIE GOLD Special to the Tribune

Published: Apr 22, 2008

The house sat near the end of a neglected street in Pasco County. In places, the pothole-ridden road looked as if landmines had waged war on the tired pavement.

The façade of the small ranch-style hovel was covered with rough-hewn slabs of faux stone, and enormous orange and brown striped awnings seemed to be shoving the entire structure into the earth.

Everything about the interior was hideous - from the outdated harvest gold appliances, to the institutional green tile in the hall bathroom, to the back porch with its sad, sagging roof and peeling yellow paint.

And the master bedroom walls were the color of Pepto Bismol, the carpet a faded merlot.

But there was something about it - something beyond its mismatched 1970s decor.

The sturdy concrete block structure sat on nearly five acres of park-like property. Broad-bodied grandfather oaks and towering sweet gums shaded the landscape. Two huge bay windows were buried beneath the awnings, and the kitchen was spacious.

It was affordable, close to work and, in my naïve first-time homebuyer's mind, filled with possibilities.

I started with two five-gallon buckets of paint and yards of wallpaper. "Have faith," I told my skeptical family. "Give me 10 years. You'll see."

It took closer to 14, but the ugly duckling became, well, maybe not a swan, but a charming country home with its own unique character.

It's cozy, not even 1,800 square feet, and despite massive remodeling, it holds tightly to its quirks.

The hallway is too narrow for more than one person to pass at a time. Except in the great room, the ceilings are so low, taller guests must demonstrate caution beneath the ceiling fans, and the decades' old wiring demands respect and will rebel against a switch flipped too quickly.

A few years ago, the roads in my neighborhood were repaved, beckoning a new generation of residents whose newer, larger structures now dot the landscape. My renovations included a stacked stone fireplace, wood floors, oak cabinets and beaded birch paneling.

Even with the improvements, it stands in sharp contrast to most contemporary Florida homes with towering cathedral ceilings, bonus rooms, walk-in closets the size of college dorms and strategically-placed palm trees.

I toy with the idea of moving, but the idea of selling the house is almost more difficult to grasp than biding farewell to friends and family.

I spend hours researching real estate sites, looking at listings for other homes in my area and trying to estimate its worth. How do I put a price on a place so familiar?

On moonless nights, my bare feet pad the path to the front door so my restless elderly dog can go out in the darkness to sniff the corners of the only yard she's ever known. Back in bed, I am serenaded by the subtle creaking of its skeleton, the mournful hum of its plumbing.

Americans are transients, moving an average of every five years and never allowing their roots to grow too deeply. We seek better addresses or search for security in gated communities with pretentious names where every house is a similar shade of taupe and all mailboxes match.

We refuse to form attachments because a house is an investment, a commodity, a status symbol. I don't want to own a house - I want to live in a home.

For now I'm firmly planted in my funky little place with the tall trees, the short ceilings and the patio spigot that howls and hisses before spurting to life. When I slip into my ruby slippers, close my eyes and click my heels, I know it's where I belong.

Christie Gold, who lives in an unspoiled area of Wesley Chapel, teaches English and journalism at Freedom High School in Tampa.