Home Sweet House: Voluntary Simplicity and Home Ownership

One of my favorite movies of all time is “House of Sand and Fog.”   To give credit to the author of the book upon which it was based, Andre Dubus III, I’m sure it’s a wonderful book, but I was introduced to this story through the movie, which starred Jennifer Connolly and Ben Kingsley.  Jennifer Connolly plays an alcoholic young woman, who, because she was simply irresponsible and not paying attention, lost her home to the bank.  Her father, whom she adored, had built that house, and it was all she had.  She had no family, no career, no relationships.

The person who bought her house was a military official who was ousted from Iran.   He was hoping to rebuild a life for himself, wife and teenage son.  The house appealed to him because, with the crow’s-nest type of deck he built on the roof of the house, he could see the ocean, which reminded him of the home he left behind on the Persian Gulf.

The meaning that this little wooden-framed home gave these two people was incredibly intense, and the drama and the plot of the story is driven by the memories and hopes of both the American girl and the displaced Iranian family.   It’s an incredible story.

It made me think of how important our homes are.  Not just the idea of “home” (where the heart is, so to speak), but the actual, physical, structure that serves as the setting of our life drama.  Most people want their own home.  The home might be a big one, a small one, a mobile one, or a multi-family one, but there’s something about the feeling that your home is YOUR castle.   It is an emblem of what you can do for your family in a very deeply-rooted sense.

While there are some simple-living people who abjur ownership of any kind, and who are happy to pay rent for the freedom it brings,  most have that primal yearning for a home of one’s own (which calls to mind another great movie with a similar theme:  A Home of Our Own with Kathy Bates).  Doesn’t  matter where you might be on the simplicity bandwagon.

I have been reading the works of Dorothy Day, that great American Catholic convert who is veering on beautification I believe.  She started out a socialist, thinking that politics were the way to class and socio-economic equality.  She came around to a belief in the power of the individual powered by Christian faith.  But even this one-time socialist and Christian activist took a windfall she got from the sale of a novel and bought a little cottage on the beach in Staten Island.

What is it that drives this need for the fistful of dirt that Scarlett O’Hara held up to the gods with a vow to “never be hungry again,” while her childhood home, Tara, glowed in the background?   The American Dream is built on the notion that each of us has the right to drive our stake in the ground, and protect it, with arms if necessary.

Yet, the property we own is really an illusion, in many ways.   Many families are certainly learning that now.  As they become upside down in their mortgages they  realize that they are still in their homes by the grace of Bank of America and their faith in their ability to continue paying the mortgage.   The Jews in Germany during the thirties and the bourgeoisie in Russia during the Bolshevik Revolution learned that home ownership can be an illusion. There, the political climate shifted radically, and property deeds were suddenly not worth the paper they were written on.   And speaking of climate, just let a tornado rip through your town, or a a hurricane rip through the levees, and the home in which you may have lived your whole life will be a memory in a moment.

Home=security to most, and maybe that’s the draw to home ownership–even though it might be a false sense of security. Could you emotionally detach from your home if you had to?  If you were forced to leave, how would you react?  How hard would you fight for whatever it is that your home has come to mean?  At what cost?

Or maybe through a turn of events, or winds of change,  lies the lesson that the security we have built inside the four walls–the nest we call our own–is not what we think.   Maybe those walls–whether made of straw, wood, or brick–are as transient as sand and fog.  If we knew that to be true, how might we live our lives differently?

Kicking Ourselves Out of Suburban Nests: Building a New Kind of Levittown


Tim Burton's depiction of suburbia in Edward Scissorhands--a surreal version of the truth

Tim Burton's depiction of suburbia in Edward Scissorhands--a surreal version of the truth

We form pictures in our heads of what we dream our lives will be like in 5, 10, 20 years.  Generally, our dreams are formed by happy memories, environments that have been comfortable and safe, our parents’ dreams for us, and pop culture cues.  

When I was fourteen I had a clear picture in my head of what my dream home would look like and it wasn’t a copy of the Brady Bunch house –it was an apartment in Greenwich Village.  Coming from a Connecticut suburb, I had no idea whatsoever what it meant to have an apartment in the Village, but I had read a story which formed romantic thoughts about having a little atelier overlooking Washington Square.  

My parents had lived the post-War American Dream.   My dad had built our little cape cod pretty much on his own, since his dad had given him a new lumber yard to manage when he got out of the Navy.  My brothers and I grew up there, walking to the neighborhood school past all the other little square houses on the way.    When we played outside, all Mom had to do was call out our names, and we’d go running.   It all seemed so safe, and each neighborhood was its own nest.

So, when I told my mother that my dream was to live in Greenwich Village, she said, “Mmmm.”  A couple of weeks later, she suggested to my stepfather that we go for a drive.  “Where shall we go?” he asked.   “Um, how about New York?  That would be fun!”  So off we went down Interstate 95 and into Manhattan.   I had been to Times Square and many of the the other midtown landmarks, and they never ceased to thrill.  But we drove out of midtown and the glitz got less glitzy, the buildings slightly greyer, until Mom managed to get us to a bunch of blocks that were a far cry from any romantic idea of New York in my head. No, suddenly I was looking at iron grates strewn with graffiti, unfriendly looking people lingering in doorways.  Where were the cute shops?  Where were the tree-lined streets?   Where were the artists in the park?   

“Well, honey,” Mom said twisting her head around from the front seat so she could fully appreciate the expression on my face.  “Here’s Greenwich Village!”   To this day I don’t know what small part of the Village she had taken me to, nor how she had so carefully avoided all the other blocks of downtown New York where the place of my imagination would have been realized, but her mission had been accomplished.  My face registered bewilderment and disappointment, and I never spoke of living in Manhattan again–at least until I was old enough to see for myself that my mother had been doing her typical Mom thing, trying to recalibrate my dreams to match the ones she had for me.   

Time Magazine’s provocative cover story this week, “10 Ideas Changing the World Right Now,”  Idea #2, Recycling the Suburbs by Bryan Walsh, nudged me out of any warm-fuzzy feelings about the type of neighborhood that I grew up in, and the type I raised my own children in.  Suburban sprawl may be on life-support.  Many will bid good riddance to the model of single family homes sequestered from the business side of town; double-width driveways and barbecue decks and the hum of riding mowers.  Towns where, if you decide to walk to the post office or convenience store and a neighbor passes you in their car, they assume your car has broken down and they offer you a ride.  When you say, you are doing it for the exercise and the pleasure of walking, they look at you funnily–as if to say, “Well then, why don’t you live in Manhattan?”

The reason suburbs may be doomed is because they are built on an outdated premise–that fuel will always be plentiful and cheap–and we now know that this is not true, which makes suburbia unsustainable.   But there are other reasons the suburbs have lost their luster.  The suburbs in many cases have failed to fulfill the promises they made.  The term “bedroom community” means that you’re only there to sleep because you spend so much time commuting to your job.   Isolation born out of this type of nesting has been written about in books like Robert Putnam’s Bowling Alone.  

Luckily, there are all kinds of visionary urban planners and architects and others who are trying to formulate a new model for the 21st century:   one of mixed-use areas, where retail shops and residences and offices come together holistically like many of the little towns in Europe that are still like that.  I remember being in Haversom, outside of Amsterdam, where you could bike or walk anywhere–and people did.  It was not unusual at all to see septuagenarians pedaling their groceries back home on their bicycles and what’s more,  the village infrastructure supported their efforts with bike paths that integrated with the pedestrian walkways and the roads for the cars.

The point is this:   Looking to a future where the American Dream is redefined sounds nice, but will require that some of us raised in subdivisions let go of nostalgia for the American Dream of the Past.   How do we reverse the trajectory from cape code to split level to McMansions and beyond?  For many of us, I think we need to detach from dream homes in our heads and ask ourselves questions like:

  • What aspects of community am I really looking for, and how do I expect them to be realized?
  • How much square footage do I really need, and can my need for space and privacy be satisfied with less?
  • Why do I want a lawn? 
  • How much do I value my time, and do I want to spend it commuting?
  • How do I define safety?  
  • How independent do I want my children to be?  What activities will foster that?
  • What aspects of my childhood home am I looking to re-create?   What dreams did I have for a home when I was young?  Are some of these emotional drivers still valid, or do they need to be re-examined or perhaps repackaged?   
  • What specific impact will my choice for home and neighborhood have on the environment?  It has been shown that city-dwellers have much less impact on the environment than their nature-seeking neighbors in the outlying suburbs.   How do I reconcile this with my personal need for a “best of both worlds” between city and country?

 If you still get misty at the thought of the Old American Dream, Bryan Walsh makes a great case for letting go of the past in this week’s TIME.   Perhaps we can all envision a new kind of Levittown with a new kind of community life that supports the environment, as well as our need for real community.  

Perhaps someday a young girl will have a dream of living in the suburbs, and so her mother will drive her into a world of dying strip malls, a world of neighbors who live isolated lives behind their manicured lawns, who leave the development in single-lane streams before the sun is up to get to work by 9.   And the young girl will say, “Mom, please take me back home–this place is scary!”