By Paul Fersen
Twenty years ago I wrote about building my house. When I built it, I assumed it would be the last house I would ever live in, but things change, lives take directions we never imagined and things we consider indelible, suddenly become untenable. What we needed then seems a bit much now. It’s time to build a new one.
Am I sad about this? Yeah, there’s a part of me that looks around at the familiar timbers that I put into place, the pegs I drove in, the walls I painted. I can remember every step of the process down to the most minute detail, simply because I did it myself with a little help from my friends. But is it devastating? No. In fact, I’m pretty excited about it, because this gives me the opportunity to do it all over again, albeit on a smaller scale. Building this house myself is the best time I ever had with tools and clothes on. Mimi and I designed it together, built it together, and raised our children here. Looking back on our life together it was, aside from farming, the most fun we ever had, because we were totally focused on our home. Today we’re focused on everything but our home, just trying to survive and somewhere we seem to have lost the reason for moving to Vermont. We’re tired of waving at each other on the road.
As it is, I figured building another house would never happen again. Well, that’s not the case. Now, I can set to work planning the next one and seeing how small we can make it and still be comfortable. Therein lies the challenge, and the fun (oh yeah, and the savings).
This house is big. I have abnormally large children. I don’t need big anymore. The two oldest are out and running, and the third is headed out soon. I’m sure there are parents/soon to be grandparents out there clucking in disapproval that there will be no room for the children and grandchildren. First of all, I don’t want to be a grandfather yet. That’s like the last big event. I’m not ready for the last big event. I’ve got too much left to do, like build another cool house. I’ll make sure there is room for the children and grandchildren to visit. My buddy Jimbo Meador has a big house down in Point Clear, Alabama, but he sleeps in his camper in the driveway. When the kids come, I’ll get me a camper. Besides, my children don’t seem to be in any hurry to get married and I’m not in any hurry to pay for any weddings.
I’ve come to the conclusion that at age 25, peer pressure to get married ranks right behind sex, drugs and alcohol peer pressure at 16. The difference is, this one is actually promoted by parents who are dying for grandchildren. Grandchildren will come soon enough and I will be the first to welcome them, but on my children’s terms, not mine. But I digress.
I’m thinking the ultimate 1,500 square foot cottage, 500 square feet for Mimi, 500 square feet for me and 500 square feet for the dog and whoever else shows up to visit. They’ll just have to sleep with the dog. Having rid ourselves of extraordinary amounts of junk in last fall’s moving sale (see last column) our house will no longer be a museum of pointless purchases. It will be a place to live. It will be tucked in the woods and there will be no lawn. Mother Nature will come right to the door. The purpose of this house will be providing a safe and comfortable haven that won’t require five jobs to support, and a “honey do” list three pages long. Don’t matter what the Joneses have. It only matters what the Buckos need—and that ain’t much.
There will be two porches on the front and the back. One will be glassed in for use in the winter and the other open to the elements. I like porches. Porches are cheap and a porch is a transition space where hearth and home meet woods and water. I’m not sure there is a place on earth where peace of mind thrives as well as on a porch, particularly one in the country. When you’re sitting on a porch, the safest place on earth is behind you and the wilderness (theoretically) is before you. As such, it engenders two of man’s best emotions, home and adventure. It will have a metal roof and a bed on it, so I can fall asleep at night listening to the rain on the roof.
The main floor will be one big room, kitchen on one end, fireplace on the other and life in the middle. I don’t like walls. I want space so when my children and eventual grandchildren come home to visit, there is room for a hockey game to break out. Since we now own nothing of great value, it won’t matter if a puck takes out the lamp. I can replace the lamp, I can’t replace watching my family have fun.
I’m realizing that the reason I came to Vermont in the first place was for rain on the roof, raucous children, woods for neighbors and time to enjoy them. It’s going to take some work to get back there, but I can’t wait. I’m beginning to remember why I came up here thirty years ago. I came to start a new life. I came for an adventure. I came here to enjoy more with less. Time to do it again.
◊Paul Fersen, aka Bucko, is a regular columnist for Stratton Magazine.
