Danielle Crittenden's 1905 house in Washington, D.C. has been undergoing a major renovation for the past year (and off and on for over a decade). In this weekly summer series, which appears weekends on HuffPo, Danielle records what it has been like for her and her family to live through the construction with their builders, Virginia-natives Brent and John. To read previous installments, click here.
View of the new breakfast room.
TRUTH BE TOLD, ours had never been an especially pretty house, and it had only got worse with the years.
The house had probably been built as a speculation, possibly a rental or vacation property, on the highest and coolest hill in the District of Columbia. Like modern tract "Victorians" or "Georgians," the house was a medley of architectural styles, cheaply executed: a little Eastlake, a bit of Colonial, a touch of mid-Victorian Italianate.
When it came time to redesign it, like most owners of old houses we had to ask ourselves: How much should we preserve of this discordant past?
Some old houses force an answer to that question. If Abraham Lincoln had once taken tea in the front parlor, or if the house was the work of some famous architect, or if it possessed some other kind of historical significance, we would become more like custodians, and obliged to preserve as much as possible.
We'd inherited a house of no importance at all, except to the people who have lived in it. Yet the house's century of history still raised issues. We had to weigh our taste and the styles of the moment against the house's existing form and character. We did not want to be guilty of "remuddling"; neither did we want to be hostage to outdated plumbing and ill-functioning windows. So while we had more creative license ...
"Your house has a magic feeling to it," said our architect, Richard Williams, the first time we sat down with him. "You don't want to lose that."
No, we didn't. For all its original flaws and unfortunate later surgeries, the house retained its high ceilings, fireplaces, substantial moldings, tall windows and doors. Some old houses radiate decades of depression, illness, tragedy. You step into them and think, My God, how many people have died in this place?
Our house, by contrast, exuded a cheerful, contented spirit. We'd felt it the moment we first stepped inside--and that's probably why we so quickly fell in love with it. You got the feeling it had seen generations of children run through its halls and climb the old magnolia in the backyard (one of my favorite finds was a set of childishly scrawled "club rules" discovered inside one of the carriage house walls--indicating that among the little house's many incarnations, it had once served as a secret "fort"). There were no creepy corners; I've never felt frightened to be alone in it at night. Okay, the basement is scary--it's the perfect place for a big brother to lock his little sister in, turn off the lights, and cackle as she screams to be let out. But I don't think there are any bodies buried down there.
So how were we to retain our elderly friend's spirit while tactfully bringing her into the modern age? This was Richard's challenge. In designing the kitchen, for example, we all agreed we did not want it to look like "the new kitchen attached to the old house." But nor did my husband and I want to be "re-enactors" in our own home, faithfully returning it to a pure replica of a 1905 house (down to the appliances disguised as woodstoves and ice boxes).
Richard presented us with a beautiful compromise. His only enlargement to the footprint of the house was a windowed breakfast room. Constructing this new room would require the demolition of a narrow back porch. This wasn't much of a loss--the porch's only effect was to keep sunlight out of the kitchen. The new room architecturally balanced a truly wonderful "historic" screen porch looked as if it had always belonged to the house, but that in fact had been added in the 1980s.
Otherwise, the work would aim at rebuilding the old house as if the job had been done right the first time. The hall would be paneled. Floors sanded to paper thinness would be replaced. New wood mouldings would substitute for irreparably cracked plaster. Uninsulated windows sealed shut by decades of sloppy paint would be switched for energy-efficient replicas that opened and shut. We joked to our friends that we were essentially ripping out our entire first floor only to rebuild it exactly the way it was.
Except for--ah!--the new kitchen. That too was a masterwork of old-modern design by Richard. My husband and I were both adamant that we did not want to build the ubiquitous kitchen/family room. No offense to those who enjoy them, but when I'm in the kitchen cooking, I don't want video games blasting from the television or to police smeary hands on sofas. A kitchen/family room is especially deadly in an old house: They invite the family to live its entire life in the one modern space while leaving uncomfortable antique parlors to gather dust.
Richard created a small mud room for the side entrance (previously you entered directly into the tiny old kitchen), with beadboard walls and a few eccentricities, such as a zinc-lined boot tray, to fool visitors into thinking it was original to the house. The mud room was joined to the kitchen by a pass-through butler's pantry and cupboards crafted to resemble panels, in two different styles, so it would look as if the kitchen had undergone renovations at different periods over time. The kitchen in turn would be separated from the new breakfast room by tall glass pocket doors. Dad would be able to enjoy his coffee and high-speed wireless in peace.
"We want whoever comes here to think that this was always how it was," became our motto. First we would restore the old. Then we could fill it with the new.
This series originates in the National Post.