Today, inspired by my friend Brittany and her quest for - and conquest of - a vintage bicycle, and one of my favorite blogs, elements of style, I thought I'd post this picture of the backyard of one of my clients. She lives in the Mordecai neighborhood of downtown Raleigh. It is the cutest, to-die-for section of "old Raleigh", that consists of craftsmen style homes, complete with quirky details, large porches with columns, and...well, basically the kind of house I grew up in in Hawaii.
The owners' own childhood bicycle
You know, I wonder if I'm so attracted to these kinds of homes because they're reminiscent of the home where I spent the first fifteen years of my life. But it wasn't all sweet jam and honey(is that a saying?). What I mean is, I didn't remember it to be a diamond in the rough kind of property, that only needed a little tlc. To me, it was just plain old and ugly.
If you look through old family photos, you will notice that all of the ones taken outside happen to be in front of all of our neighbors' yards. I lived on a street with a bunch of old (at least they seemed it at the time) Japanese ladies who would spend hours and hours watering their bird of paradise plants and plumeria trees, cigarette hanging out of the side of their mouths. They smoked just like you would imagine old people smoke. You know, when they let the cigarette just burn down to nothing, and they never flip the butt, so soon it just resembles one, long ash, incredibly maintaining its form, until finally, they open their mouth to say something, and the end falls off and washes away with the flowing water. From time to time, they would yell something out to the other, whatever the daily gossip was, all the while, watering. The house in front of us to the left displayed an enviable row of fuscia bougainvillea vines kept under control by a brick retaining wall. When I close my eyes and dream of Hawaii, I can remember the scent of pikake (jasmine) floating in through my louvre window from Ada's, (our next door neighbor) garden. But the most impressive garden belonged to the neighbor directly across from us. She looked after an impeccable rock and planter garden that matched the sophistication of the contemporary style of her house. Hence, the majority of pictures were taken in her driveway.
Then there was our house. We were renters. And my mom doesn't have a green thumb. Perhaps that explains everything. Let me put it this way...when it would rain, we would make paper boats or find a straggling, dry ti leaf that could serve as the hull and let them drift down the "rapids" that were the muddy, red dirt, mini-canyons of our front yard. Instead of green grass and hibiscus, we had a messy mango tree that would drop softball sized mangoes incessently, and call attention to all kinds of critters. The owners never did anything as far as upkeep was concerned, so all I can remember is that the "doodoo"-colored exterior paint was peeling horribly, and the rickety, tin-covered carport served better use as our personal - and unstable - monkey bars. When the bus dropped me off on the corner, whether I was coming home from the beach, dance class, or a trip to the crack seed store I mentioned in previous posts, funded by my mom's "penny stash", I would walk into the yard of one of my neighbors, embarrassed for one of my schoolmates to see where I really lived.
And woudn't you know. That 1920s craftsman, with the big front porch supported by red concrete steps, thick columns, and beadboard ceiling, the paneled interior walls lined with window seats and secret storage below, glass-enclosed built-ins in the kitchen, and 6-panel solid wood doors, are just the kind of quirky characteristics I love and miss seeing in a home!
And this is why I love this particular neighborhood in downtown Raleigh. The tree-lined streets abound with so much character, it seems as if each house is recounting its own story to any passerby willing to stop, listen, and observe. So why then, I can't explain, is the very kind of house that caused me so much social status grief as a kid, the exact the kind of overpriced, vintage property I would love to own? Is there more to the attraction than just the type of architecture I admire? Is it some kind of internal and automatic comfort sensory that, now, at 30, allows me to appreciate thick moldings and porcelain farmhouse sinks... because I link it to my childhood?
It's so interesting how, in varying situations, we spend so many years running from our own family history, culture, and traditions, only to later yearn for those very things that have subconsciously shaped who we are.
I can't say I miss the outdoor shower, however...and trust me, it's not as cool and rustic as it sounds. An outhouse would be a more suitbale description. And, btw, in my experience, outdoor clotheslines are not as nostalgic and whimsical as they're cracked up to be.
So, while you conjure up your own life experiences you were previously embarrassed by and now embrace, I'd like to point out that, although this yard would probably be closer to what I could've found next door at my neighbors' in Hawaii, it serves as a little nod to a special architectural movement, a little bit of my history and memories, and hopefully, what one day, will be something like what my future could look like.
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