We had the front porch and steps painted yesterday, also the weather-beaten side of the house and the peeling wall of the ancient garage. We still call it a garage, but it's just a falling down shed. At some point, it will collapse in the alley, if the garbage truck doesn't knock it down first.
A "non conforming structure" it can't be rebuilt on the same footprint. But we could build a big, honking ADU in the backyard, smack up against the alley.
A big improvement, but like putting lipstick and powder on a very old lady. There's always something peeling, cracking, rotting or falling apart. This wood and plaster house was built in about 1918, so amazing it's still standing, albeit with constant maintenance.
These old Seattle bungalows (aka Vintage Craftsman) have become very desirable, that is, until they're torn down to build big box houses or condos.
Our guests think the house is just perfect, although sitting in the pretty living room drinking wine doesn't give the real picture of actually living here. Then I sound like a sourpuss, trying tell them otherwise.
The idea of an old house is more charming than the reality-- tiny kitchen and bedrooms, no counter space, useless closets, lugging things to the laundry room and pantry down steep basement stairs. All of this falls on deaf ears.
Enough complaining.
Repeat: We are lucky. We are lucky. We are lucky.
It was already getting light at 5:30 am, with the chickadees and finches singing their hearts out. A lovely morning and the familiar parade of flowers is just getting started with the big iris. Once again the garden (which I have also been known to gripe about) becomes the best thing about living here.
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