House-build

Our ’79 Ford E250 van is roadside at left. Our contractor’s Ford pickup has made its first foray onto our property, in what later became our driveway. (Long ago photo by BobbaLew.)

—Yrs Trly inadvertently dumped his 89 bazilyun photographs of our house-build all over the floor the other morning.
There on top (above) was our contractor’s pickup in its first foray onto our property. Our ’79 Ford E250 van was parked roadside.
Our property is an abandoned cornfield.
The first thing our contractor did was cut the driveway. Gravel then crusher-run on top.
Then he cleared our building-site with a small rented ‘dozer.
That house-build, 30 years ago, was the greatest adventure my wife and I ever undertook. The culmination of weeks of research, model-making, architect consults, planning, and a gigantic spec-book that turned off at least one bidder. (We started with four.)
Our house was to be super-insulated. “You could heat it with lightbulbs,” our contractor joked.
He drove Fords. Normally I’m a Chevy-man = rather conventional. But super-insulation was way out there. I figgered I needed a contractor willing to take risks = a Ford-man.
Super-insulation was a reaction to our tiny first home in Rochester. Double-hung windows so leaky we were heating the outdoors.
I still live in the house we built. My wife died eight years ago.
She was tired of our home in Rochester, which needed total rehab or else tear it down and start over.
Designing a house seemed like something I could do. She got me interested with her research on super-insulation.
We coulda done other things: bury the house below-grade, solar heating, or a heat-pump drawing heat from the surrounding soil.
(I pass a business on the highway, which recently installed a “solar-system.” A sign out front plugs the install. “I want one-a them there ringed-planets!” I’d say.)
All those concepts might need repair. A super-insulated house just sits there. You’re not maintaining anything.
We worked with that contractor before. He remodeled our kitchen in Rochester, a rickety attached shed.
My spec-book would turn off anyone.
That guy never built super-insulated before, so we became a team. My Magic-Marker markings are still inside on the shell plywood. They were for double-wall construction, which I understood, but he didn’t.
For whatever reason we worked well together. Anyone else would have said stuff it!
I doubt he paid much attention to our spec book. But I knew it, and he wanted to please me.
We also weren’t building conventionally. We were paying him as he built, which means we owned what he built.
Usually a contractor owns what he built, then sells to his customer.
Our contractor had already built two houses, one for his parents, and one for himself.
I liked the way he finished them, and told him so. “I want soffit-overhangs just like your house.” I’m sure he liked that. (The appearance of his previous builds factored into our choosing him.)
The first thing I did was measure our E250. I wanted a garage that would swallow it. (I.e. No more oil-changes in the snow.)
18 feet long, plus three feet in front for workspace, plus three feet behind, is a 24-foot-deep garage.
Which is huge, but so is the house.
2x12 floor joists two feet on-center span 12 feet, so usually a house is 24 feet wide with a single center beam.
Our house needed two center-beams.
So here I am, 30 years later, picking up hundreds of photos I took as our house was built.
Cellar-hole, septic, foundation, framing, drywall, cabinets, etc.
I also installed phone-wiring for every room. But it just hangs. I’m about to dump that landline.
I also wired cable-TV to every room, but just discontinued my cable-TV.
And my cellar is bone dry, because my wife and I did the under-slab vapor-barrier. (“I don’t want that thing leaking!”)
Recently my heating-contractor did an environmental evaluation. I passed with flying colors.
“I see someone insulated between the floor joists out at the exterior wall.”
“My wife and I did that, and it wasn’t easy. Cutting and fitting around all kinds of piping.”
Memories upon memories, and all for naught. I can’t stay here forever.
Whoever buys my house gets an unforgettable adventure. Plus a garage with a pit.
(“$2,500,” the contractor told me. “Do it!” I shouted. “That adds maybe five bucks to our monthly mortgage payment.” —I haven’t used it in years.)
Things are different over 30 years. I’m on garage-door number-two, all our windows had to be replaced (the wood frames were rotting), and much of our 4.7 acres has been fenced.
“Best $16,000 we ever spent; I can let the dog out and let him run without worrying about him getting in the highway,” where bellowing Harleys might get 80 mph, and crotch-rockets wheelie at 100 mph.
We also had to redo the north wall of our porch. It suffered water damage, due to erroneous flashing installation.
Much of our property has reforested, and recently I went to a metal roof.
I don’t look forward to leaving.

As finished, 30 years ago. (The foreground has reforested.) (Long-ago photo by BobbaLew.)