FIX THAT HOUSE!

John Kessel

 

On this episode of Fix That House! we restore

a stately home from the antebellum South.

 

Judy and I did not know what we were letting ourselves in for when we bought the ancient, grand but seedy mid-19^th century mansion out on Chinaberry Road. Certainly we knew from the start that the place had seen better days, but we had no idea of the many details to which we would have to attend, and the at times seemingly impossible roadblocks we would face—and have to figure out a way around—before we could live in our dream home.

From the day we moved in we were determined to bring the pre-Civil War manor house back to something resembling its former grandeur. One of the problems was that the original structure, completed in 1846, did not offer the amenities that people in later years came to value. The absurdly large kitchens, the closets the size of studio apartments, and the over-luxurious baths that people demand today—not to mention indoor plumbing and electricity—all these had come later, done well or poorly, and each alteration had taken the house farther from its original majesty. We did not want to live in a house lacking electricity or plumbing, certainly, but Judy and I were determined to hold these compromises to a minimum.

Many changes made by successive owners had to be undone. A hideous bay window had been cut into the parlor. A marble counter added to the kitchen had resulted in plastering over one of the tall windows. The original six-inch oak plank floors had been covered by linoleum, carpet, or tile.

One of the first decisions we had to make was what materials to use in the reconstruction. For only one example, the interior walls had deteriorated drastically over the last century. The original walls had been constructed of plaster over wooden lath that was nailed in horizontal strips at right angles onto the structural members. The plaster, an inch thick, was made from sand, slaked lime, and horsehair. The lime used in the original construction came from ground limestone and oyster shells. Where were we to find an adequate supply of oyster shells, let alone horsehair?

A common solution to this problem is to rip down the original walls and replace them with modern gypsum wallboard. Judy and I were determined not to take this easy way out.   

Authenticity was our watchword. After some research we located an oyster farm on the coast that offered plenty of shells from which to prepare our plaster. Judy, an accomplished equestrienne, had some stable-owner friends whose clients were forever clipping their thoroughbreds; they became our horsehair connection.

Then the problem became finding workmen who knew how to use these materials, or who were willing to learn, at a price that did not break our bank account. We had to put up with their balkiness and mistakes. Workers of Northern European descent, as were most at the time of the house’s construction, were at a premium. Poorly educated Irishmen might have made an acceptable substitute, and were historically credible, but it was hard nowadays finding men willing to work for the low wages we could afford to pay.

Sweat equity was one solution. But Judy and I had sixty-hour-a-week careers to pursue. The brokerage could not be left to function without me for days at a time. Judy was busy with her work for the Heritage Center.

At times we compromised. We lucked out when we located clever Manuel, an industrious immigrant who ran a crew experienced in reconstruction projects. Fortunately, many of these men were undocumented, so they came cheap, and Judy very much enjoyed putting her Spanish minor to real use.

About that time Judy discovered she was pregnant. We’d been talking about starting a family, and we were both overjoyed that we would soon be parents. We talked over whether she should keep her job. I suspected that once we had a child Judy would not want to go back to work, and the ongoing reconstruction of the house offered an additional reason for her to take a leave from the Heritage Center. And so she did. Judy would manage the reconstruction, on site much more than I could be to monitor the workmen.

Six months into the renovation Judy's pregnancy was proceeding well, but the restoration of the Chinaberry Road house had stalled. It looked like she would produce an heir long before we would be able to produce the home we hoped to raise our children in. The stress of the pregnancy and of living in a half-renovated house was wearing on our nerves and, to be perfectly honest, our marriage.

We were cooking over a hot plate and washing dishes in the laundry room. The longer this dragged on, the edgier we got. This time the problem was not with workmen or materials, but a difference in our individual visions. Judy and I both loved the idea of historical authenticity, but our commitments to it were unequal. I wanted our home to be as close to an accurate representation of what those more gracious times had offered, while Judy, though she was on board for "the whole voyage," as she put it, was conflicted when it came to a choice between faithfulness to the past and comfort.

Where this showed itself in the renovation was the kitchen. I wanted the kitchen to have a wood burning stove, big wooden counters and tables, a water pump, washtubs, and a cast iron oven. Judy agreed that such a kitchen would be beautiful, but insisted that it would be hard to prepare meals in such a throwback. Plus, in the summer it would get intolerably hot in there.

"But we have air conditioning," I said. I had given in on that one. Nobody could be asked to live through a Southern summer without AC.

Judy resisted. As her pregnancy had progressed her mood had become more fragile. We were at an impasse.

Then it hit me: the solution would come not by fighting against the demands of authenticity, but by fulfilling them.

"We'll turn the garage into a cookhouse, an outdoor kitchen! A modern one, connected by a covered walkway," I said. "Then we can keep the indoor one as it should be, but do most of the cooking in the outdoor one. That's the way they did it back then, anyway."

Judy was skeptical, but after a little persuasion she agreed to try it out. I admit that I was nervous when, after we completed the indoor kitchen as a faithful reproduction of its antebellum ancestors, it proved more showplace than workspace; still, we now had the cookhouse to serve as the place where the real meal preparation was done.

Judy was not mollified. By this time she was seven months pregnant, and it was no fun for her having to go back and forth between the house and the outbuilding on those hot Southern days. I could not pretend that the situation as it stood was satisfactory.

So we invested in some slaves. First just a personable young kitchen slave, Dottie. But then I threw out my back at the racket club and was unable to do as much around the house, so we bought a male, Tommo.

Soon after this our daughter Sally was born, an apple-cheeked little darling with the bluest of eyes and blonde hair like cornsilk. We had so much fun with her that immediately I suggested we produce a brother to match. Our house, the jewel of Chinaberry Road, was rounding into shape, and I was doing so well at the brokerage that there was no need for Judy to go back to work. We had a family to grow, and her fine sensibilities and womanly charms were all that was lacking to complete the transformation of our house into a true home. Eventually she saw the sense of what I proposed.

Last night as I sat out on steps of the verandah watching the sun descend behind the pines, I turned to Tommo, who was sitting one step down from me, and asked, "Is Dottie in her cabin? Had her supper?"

Tommo, a fellow of few words, simply nodded his wooly head.

"That's good. We'll let her rest for a bit. I'll go out and visit her later."

We regarded the western sky, black trees silhouetted against the purple, orange, and pink of a glorious sunset. “It’s a beautiful world, isn’t it, Tommo?”

“Yassuh,” said Tommo.    

 

John Kessel was born in Buffalo, New York, USA, in 1950. He taught literature and writing at NC State University, where he helped found the MFA program in creative writing. His fiction has received the Theodore Sturgeon, Locus, James Tiptree Jr./Otherwise, Ignotus, and Shirley Jackson awards, and twice received the Nebula award. The Dark Ride: The Best Short Fiction of John Kessel, was published in 2022, and his collection The Presidential Papers appeared in PM Press’s Outspoken Authors series in 2024.