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If old house is hot, cool overrules charm
BEYOND MY CONTROL, BY CHRISTINE THOME
If old house is hot, cool overrules charm
People who own old homes, and, by old, I mean well over 100 years, are just plain stupid. I should know. I'm one of them.
I have a lot of good friends who are Realtors, and I have nothing against the industry, but, to be honest, the ones who can sell old homes must be the best con artists in the world.
Think about it. I want a job in which I can make lots of money by telling people they should pay for a home that has no level floors, windows that are painted shut or must be propped open with a book, doors that require a stiff kick in the summer to get them open, lead paint on every surface, cracked ceilings and walls, small bathrooms, no closets, a wet basement and no air conditioning.
"They sure don't make houses like they used to," the Realtor always says.
"You got that right, lady!" a smart buyer will say. "Today, houses are made of hurricane-proof materials, working electricity and plumbing, windows that don't leak like the U.S. economy and bathrooms that are large enough so the average person's knees don't hit the door when he sits down."
"You're paying for the history and charm," the realtor always replies with a smile.
The key word is charm. People think charm is the architectural details in the woodwork or the nooks and crannies and built-in dressers. People think charm is the history of the house and that, if you put aluminum siding over the original wood exterior or enlarge the kitchen and waterproof the basement, you will lose the home's original "charm."
After 12 years in an old house, I've finally realized that charm is a secret Realtor acronym for Crumbling Houses And Rotting Mansions. I can just see the entire office high-fiving each other and saying, "Yep, I sold another Charmer!"
I shouldn't be so cynical, because I really do love my old home. Old houses are quirky, and it takes a quirky -- or, as we like to refer to ourselves, charming -- person to own one. The only time of the year that I truly wish I had the creature comforts of a 21st-century home is during the first heat wave of the summer, when the wood windows that leaked blizzard air all winter suddenly swell shut, forcing the indoor temperature to rise to the same temperature as the Sahara Desert.
During our first summer in our home, I decided we would be purists and absolutely refused to allow my husband to place any air-conditioner units in any of the windows.
"The original owners of this home didn't have air conditioning, and they survived," I surmised when John begged me to let him install just a few units.
"Not for long they didn't," he muttered as he wiped the sweat from his face. "No wonder the average life span in 1875 was 50 years old."
"It would cheapen the look of this house if there were window units hanging out the front windows, and I don't want to take away from the charm," I answered snootily, still under the Realtor's influence of the secret word -- charm.
So for one summer we sweated in the morning, we sweated in the evening, we sweated when we ate, we sweated when we slept, and we even sweated when we showered. The next year, I insisted John put air-conditioning units in every possible window -- front and back, it no longer mattered.
"What happened to not wanting to look cheap and take away from the charm?" he asked with a grin.
I knew he was looking to give me a big, fat "I told you so!" but I was so hot and crabby that I just yelled, "I can't take one more summer of sleeping next to another hot body in the heat, and, if you want to come near me in the next 12 weeks for anything more than a good-night kiss, then you will install every air-conditioning unit we own right now!"
I've never seen him move so fast.
Trust me -- being cheap and charmless is worth it if you're cool and comfortable.
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