I wanted to build a house

Growing up, I wanted to build a house. Not just the requisite tree house or small play shed. But a real house to live in.

I have no idea where the idea came from.

My parents lived in a house that my dad bought from the original owners, who had it built in the late 1920s. Dad’s approach to anything house related was to call the local plumber, electrician, contractor or handyman. Home repair was just not one of his strong suits.

So clearly didn’t get the idea from him.

The bricklayer built a house

But Sven, my cousin Gertie’s husband, built a house for his family. That was impressive. (Several of my cousins are about 20 years older than me, so already had families when I was still a kid.)

Sven’s house looked every bit as neat, tidy and well constructed as all the other houses in the neighborhood. Of course: He was a skilled bricklayer, carpenter and builder. It’s what he did for a living all his life.

I can only imagine what that was like: Work hard on houses for others all day long and then in the evening go out to the house you’re building for yourself. More manual labor. I figure he slept well at night.

“Building your own home is about desire, fantasy. But it’s achievable; anyone can do it.”