I Love Houses

    I love houses. Simply that. It took me a long time to put into words so clearly something that has been a constant undercurrent in my life and at the back of my mind.

    I love living in houses.

 

    I love owning houses.

 

    I love being a homeowner and living in my owned home. That is my definition of home-base, stability, abundance and prosperity. I suspect it comes from this - the house my grandfather built and the home life it shaped for me most of my youth. 

    I wanted to document the details that made home home for me but were built with intention by my grandparents. In my later years, I saw my journey in theirs. Buying a home, setting it up from scratch. Buying furniture. Fixing, repairing, cleaning. Doing the yard and organizing the garage. Planning renovations and landscaping. I love every bit of it. I understand my grandmother's source of happiness lying in sweeping the backyard meticulously so every fallen guava leaf was caught by her broom. It reflected seamlessly in my own cleaning of my backyard, getting upwards of twenty bags worth of fall leaves raked. 

    

    Caring for your space is a different kind of pleasure - deep and satisfying. Nothing can replace it. I understand the training I received from my grandmother carrying buckets and mugs of water from the water drum in the backyard out to the plants and plant beds in the front yard. I resonate with her deep empathy for her poor plants shriveling up under the burning summer sun of the tropics and wanting to save them even if we were short on water. That experience was reflected back to me when I got a handyman to teach me how to connect the hose in the garage and operate it so I could water my lawn in the front and the shrubs, some planted with my siblings' help.

    Now come to think of it, I love that my home became the unspoken and understood gathering spot for family. It flowed smoothly from my dad's desires of always being the magnetic center that attracted family gatherings around where he was. It also showed up as the matriarchal energy my grandmother exuded that had her home the buzzing social center for extended family gatherings and events. I love hosting people like both of them did. I love throwing parties in my home, just as my dad and grandmother did. 

    I love travelling. I love waiting at my designated gate at the airport for my flight while I observe the crowds passing by. I love boarding and deplaning. I love catching a quick bite from the overpriced airport eatery while I wait for my flight. I love landing at new places to discover that my soul feels tranquil and safe there. 

    But most of all, I love coming back home to my house after that travel. I love having a home that I own to come back to. 

There are no doors like this anymore. Sturdy wood, detailed shutter, latch and handle prominent.

This was an external-facing door and did not have the elaborate glass that my grandparents planned for the other doors.

Look at those wooden stoppers up to hold the shutters steady and open. There are similar ones for the leaves on the bottom

Thick sturdy walls and cement ventilators common to the time

Those two vertical metal bars acting as grills to barricade the opening on either side. The groove details along the axis of opening.

Those cement pipes, that little storage room up top with the porous shutter, the column of the compound wall thicker, an eave sloping water off the wall.

Doors bearing the yellow patina of age but proudly wearing their details, glass and grills

An actual functioning well with a pulley and all adjacent to a pump store hidden discretely

A close-up of that old-fashioned pulley over the well

    I have a few more images of the two old gates, the broad compound walls and metal railings. Blogger is being exhausting in screwing up the formatting so I'll just leave those away in my hard drive.

This is the house my grandfather and grandmother built.