Colonial Revival, Southern Style

It's not really much to speak of, but I'll share one of my hobbies with you guys, something that passes the time very agreeably for me out here on the prairie.

The first software I bought after I finally acquired a computer was a home design program.  I have no training in architecture, but I've been drawing and redrawing my dream house - or should I say houses? - for more than thirty years now.  I've drawn dozens of designs, depending on whether my imagination at a given moment leads me to think of a modest cottage or a grand manor, a townhouse or a ranch, an apartment or a suburban home.  Or just a new and improved version of somewhere I once lived.

I paid only ten bucks for that first program, which came on a floppy disk; but that was the best ten bucks I ever spent, because it gave me many hundred hours of creative play, and allowed me to go far beyond what I had been doing with pencil, paper, and ruler (I have no training in art, either, sad to say).  The challenge for me, and a great deal of fun, is to set myself a limit such as one might encounter in the real world:  a certain number of square feet, a certain shape, a certain architectural style.  Anybody can draw a big, rambling house that bulges out here and there; the satisfaction, though, comes from coloring inside the lines, so to speak - creating a lovely, liveable space within realistic limits.

Which, I imagine, is what real architects do, most of the time.

Now, modern architecture is not your Head Trucker's cup of tea, but I do dearly love traditional old homes like Colonial Revival - the sort of house I would have liked to grow up in.  Here's my latest attempt, based on an actual architect's design from about 1925, which I've elaborated a bit and, I think, improved upon.

I could show you fellas the floor plan too, if I thought you really wanted to see it.  But perhaps you can imagine your own floor plan, which is half the fun of looking at old houses, isn't it?

Of course, I have a much better program now than what I started out with, which generates these wonderful three-dimensional views of the outside of the house.  No doubt some or all of you are faintly smiling and saying, So what?  But I look at these renderings and imagine not only the house but a life lived there.

I wander sometimes through my houses like a ghost, drifting on the evening breeze that wafts the scent of magnolias and fresh-mown grass through the windows.  I watch the shades of a summer twilight lengthen, hear the distant crickets begin to chirp.  I watch the family as they finish up their supper at the big mahogany table in the dining room - is it someone's birthday, or the Fourth of July, or just a summer visit with the kinfolks from out of town?  There has been much talk and laughter; now the women, without missing a word of gossip, are carrying the dishes into the kitchen and filling the sink, while the men with their jokes and stories drift towards the den, or the back porch.  The girls giggle their way upstairs to the pink-and-white bedroom where there are new records to play, and hair curlers, and talk of boys.  The older boys head out to the garage and discuss fireworks and cars and girls.  The younger boys run across the porches and all around the yard, shrieking happily, playing hide-and-seek in the shadows of the big oaks, with the dogs excitedly joining in the game.  A train whistle blows for the crossing at the bottom of the hill, and is swallowed up in the muffled rumble of the cars.  Somewhere a church bell tolls the hour.  Nobody wants the evening to end anytime soon, not even the grandparents, who are already a little tired, but full of good cheer.

Life is sweet, and safe, and steady.  I am in their midst, gliding among them, the silent wraith who sees and hears it all.  They have no idea I am here, watching, listening . . . ordaining their private joy.  They will never know me, though I know them well.

It is not my house.  It is not my life.  But a life that might have been.  Could have been.  Should have been.

Update:  Below the jump, the floor plans.

Just Dreamin'

I read something long ago that has turned out to be very true: there comes a point in middle age when you realize that a great many things you once may have dreamed about will never, ever come to pass. No doubt this happens to all of us but the very highest achievers.

For example, once upon a time, you might have dared to hope that you would someday have a house big enough to have its own well-appointed bar, and wouldn't this look awfully nice in there, with you lounging around in a velvet jacket and slippers and pipe, saying:  Another piña colada, James.

And there may have been a time when you actually believed that you would would one day have the heart to take up piano lessons again, and if you did, wouldn't this be grand to make music on?

And again, you may have somehow longed for some lovely, solid home with an actual fireplace and then wouldn't this room be something nice to come home to and snuggle up in with a cozy book, or dog, or lover?

Although who could possibly keep those white chairs white for long?  Not you, certainly.  So perhaps it is really for the best that these things did not come to pass.  It may be that you would only have made a mess of it, after all.  Had you torn through the iron gates of life, you would perhaps have had only a broken gate to show for it.  Had you dared to eat a peach, you would have dribbled the juice down your shirt front.

And would it have been worth it, after all?

A spilled drink, a broken key, a soiled fabric, a cold draft, a spent flame - reality has that annoying way of intruding on even the cheeriest of dreams.

Well, no matter. Perhaps the kindest thing we can do for ourselves in this mortal life is to dream beautifully. Some say life itself is but a dream.

What do you say?

Dreamhouse: Ragley Hall

When you daydream, what do you dream about?

One of my pastimes when I've got nothing better to do - or, er, perhaps when I'm avoiding something I'd better be doing - is looking at pictures of wonderful old houses like Ragley Hall.  England is full of magnificent stately homes, but Ragley takes the cake in my book for the perfect symmetry of its plan, and the exquisite modesty of its grandeur:  not too much, not too little. 

Building began in 1680 but was not completed until the 1750's; the red salon has been maintained to look exactly as it did when decorated in 1780, with only two refurbishments of the upholstery and wallpaper, in 1870 and 1970.

The great hall is breathtaking:  70 feet long, 40 feet wide, and 40 feet high. 

And the tromp l'oeil murals by artist Grant Rust took 14 years to complete (1969-1983), but the results are more than worth the effort.  Check out this video of his work at Ragley, and set the video to play at 480 pixels.  Wow is all I can say.



Home to the Marquess and Marchioness of Hertford, the house and gardens are open to the public if you're ever in the neighborhood.  Believe it or not, there are plenty of even grander houses over there, but none prettier that I've seen or heard tell of.

I know, it's not the kind of shack you'd ever expect to find an old shitkicker like me in.  But still, it shore is purty to look at, ain't it boys?