One thing I have never understood is the desire to have a mansion. Even if I had all the money in the world, I wouldn’t want one. Partly this is because I have a poor person’s mentality — one of my first thoughts is Who’d want to have to keep it clean all the time? Lori: rich people have maids. And it’s not just because too often mansions reflect a poor person’s idea about what ‘rich’ looks like (see Trump’s vulgar all-gold manifestation, pure obscene vulgarity); it’s just that my longing is for a bungalow. I just want to have my own little place, my own little home.
Since I first heard about them when I was a late teen, I’ve wanted my own little Craftsman-style bungalow. Hell, even the word bungalow makes me fill up with longing. Cottage. I saw a little home in Huntsville, Alabama that has stayed in my imagination, not even a Craftsman style home but definitely a cottage, surrounded by a beautiful little garden, and I’ve lived there in my imagination ever since.
Look at the interior of this Craftsman home:
AARGH that is such perfection for me. I don’t have much of an imagination, and without a mind’s eye it’s not as if I daydream the specifics of that life but I have it elaborated as story.
This is in conflict with my other dream of having a little yellow house; Craftsman homes are brick or stone, and yellow trim is odd — and my yellow house is full-on yellow, not just yellow-trimmed. Big Daddy’s house was yellow, back when I was a child, and I know that’s the source of my longing. It was just a plain little stick house, not one thing fancy about it in any way, so that daydream of mine isn’t really elaborated beyond little yellow house. But I could be very happy in that kind of small home, too.
And then there’s another fantasy house, also small, also in the bungalow/cabin/cottage realm. The first time I went to Woodstock, NY, in 2005, I spotted a little cabin sitting on a rock outcropping over a creek. It was bigger than a creek or stream, smaller than a river — rocky, so the water burbled and splashed past the cabin. I took a picture of it but can’t find it to include here. It had shake siding, and a peaked roof, a beautiful front porch you could sit on and watch the water flow past, over morning coffee or evening wine. It was surrounded by trees; I first saw it in the fall, so it was surrounded by those flames of foliage. In my fantasy story of it then, it had a living room with a woodburning stove, and a small kitchen. Walls lined with bookshelves. One very cozy bedroom, and another room with walls of windows and a giant loom, and a spinning wheel — a version of a life I once had.
I also love mid-century modern homes, and extremely modern glass homes, and can imagine a life in them too but it’s the bungalow, the cottage, the cabin in the woods that always sustains my heart and my imagination. I’m a big city girl — a real city girl, New York, Chicago, Paris — and feel so alive there. Some days the city beats me, and some days I get tired of how hard it can be to do any damn thing, but I never want to leave the city. I could live in a big city until the day I die and remain very happy.
In some ways I have distinctly different people inside me: the NYC happiest one, and the cabin lost so far back in the woods one, and both are real and true. Since one of my two personal mottos is “Well, oh well!” I can fully inhabit where I am and be truly glad. SO: Well, oh well! I live in a big city and not a wood-surrounded cabin, oh well! I’m happy! But that doesn’t mean the other couldn’t be fully true in a heartbeat. In a heartbeat.
I assume everyone is like this, right? What’s your fantasy home(s)?
(I was looking on the internet for a little cabin like the one I saw in Woodstock so long ago, to replace the photo of mine that I can’t find, and saw these gems. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to live in these?)