I grew up surrounded by big skies, towering Douglas
firs, and glassy blue bays. Our wood bungalow sat without much fanfare in a
quiet neighborhood and bore the marks of rough-hewn timbers that echoed the
surrounding forests. It was tiny for a family of five, but the yard was
enormous and framed by mountain views. We were never far from wooded trails
where we could hike and ride our bikes.
My mother was guided by nature and easy
maintenance, so our garden was a disorderly affair that had nothing to
do with rigorous symmetry or geometry. Everything was just slightly out of
control. There were 50-year-old fruit trees, roses and azaleas, and
rhodo-dendrons the size of Volkswagens. Because Mom could not bear to
throw away gift plants, the rescued Easter lilies and orchids grew next to
the lettuce, cucumbers, and tangled ivy.
Obviously, our garden was not a
design statement, but it was a fine place to cook dinner over a wood fire.
It is also the first place that my brothers and I planted seeds in a tiny
patch of soil, using our small rakes and shovels.
In those days, I didn't know a thing about
traditional versus modern interiors -- I was just a kid -- and I certainly
didn't have the critical capacity to judge our little house. Mom had
her own style, mixing old furniture with new. Decades later, I would
describe it as an eccentric mishmash. My father had a workbench in our
single-car garage, and many of our possessions were organized in
Dad's handmade knotty pine cabinets. Mom's decorating was
kid-friendly, casual, charming, unpretentious, and peaceful, and it
perfectly suited students in residence.
This translated into a plethora of
things our family loved: books and musical instruments, toys, photographs,
American Indian baskets, old textiles, hooked rugs, deeply distressed wood
furniture, ecclesiastical candelabra, oversize armchairs and sofas,
earthy textures, a collection of blue-and-white porcelain plates, my
grandmother's embroidered bed linens, and shells and driftwood that
we had picked up on the beach. I don't remember a single designer
object.
The place probably sounds a little wobbly, but what
meant more to my parents than indoor plumbing was togetherness. We ate our
meals around the table instead of refueling at an island counter (there was
no island, anyway), and we ate home cooking, not takeout.
With its open floor plan and lots of wood, our home
was immensely livable, in stark contrast to the sleek white and stainless
surfaces of American modernism. It was simple and to the point,
unencumbered by extra wings or service quarters. Warmth and comfort
permeated the place, and friends and family loved to visit. OK, so no
magazine editor would have wanted to photograph our unassuming dwelling.
Indeed, there were even some serious cracks in the plaster.
