In the early 1930s, just a few years before my birth, my father made an unexpected decision to purchase a summer house. This came as a surprise to our relatives and friends because our family was not accustomed to “summering” like the wealthy. My father was a hardworking man, and even in the best of times, we made do with city parks, public pools, and air-cooled movie theaters. These were the worst of times, the years of the Great Depression, when the fear of unemployment loomed over everyone. But my father possessed an unwavering belief that he was exempt from this hardship. While it might apply to others, it certainly wouldn’t affect him.
My father was a man who charted his own course in life. Everyone who knew him understood this about him. So when he made up his mind to provide a summer house for his family, he was determined to make it happen. He found a bargain sixty miles north of New York City, a three-room bungalow on a full acre of land in Upper Westchester County, an area that was still rural at that time. The surroundings were beautiful, with wild strawberries growing freely, a tall hickory tree adorning the dirt road, and a neighboring farmer cultivating tomatoes and corn.
But here’s the catch – this house was not intended to be our permanent residence. No, it was deemed too good for us. Instead, my father planned to rent it out to subsidize our future home, a house that existed only in his dreams. He saw the years of hard work ahead as an opportunity for progress and it filled him with joy.
Now the question was, where should he begin? The first step was to add a porch to the bungalow, but not just any porch – a unique outdoor room with a cement floor, concrete walls, and a roof supported by two-by-fours. It was a substantial addition that pleased my father. Without wasting any time, he started constructing another room behind the porch.
For many summers thereafter, my father diligently worked on the house, expanding it room by room, raising the roof to create attic space, and even digging out a basement. Every weekend, he climbed an old, paint-streaked ladder to heights of 15 or 20 feet, carrying materials for his ongoing construction projects. I remember being an infant and occasionally receiving the thrill of a ladder ride from my father, causing my mother to nervously watch from below.
My father was an amateur in every sense of the word. He had no formal training in construction, architecture, plumbing, or electrical work. Yet, with his stubbornness and tenacity, he forged ahead, figuring things out as he went along. He rarely consulted books or experts and had no grand plan for the house. Aesthetics were not a consideration for him. The joy was in the process – hammering, mixing cement, finding materials. And materials were often scavenged, reclaimed from construction sites or found abandoned. My father only spent money when absolutely necessary and when there were no substitutes available. He was frugal and resourceful, holding tightly onto his limited funds.
This cycle continued for eight or nine summers of my childhood. My father could have kept building rooms indefinitely, but one summer, for reasons known only to him, he decided it was enough. However, the work never truly stopped. There was always something to be done in a handmade house.
Surprisingly, the house was not an eyesore. The original features, such as the peaked roof and arched doorway, along with the makeshift porch columns, provided a sense of visual cohesiveness. But once inside, the true nature of the house revealed itself. Unlike professional builders who carefully plan the layout and use of space, my father placed walls haphazardly, resulting in leftover spaces that became dark, narrow hallways. Steep staircases connected the basement to the attic, lacking handrails and closets were non-existent.
There was no designated living room, as the front door opened directly into the kitchen. The kitchen had the basic necessities – a stove, a sink, and a table surrounded by mismatched chairs. Unmatching pieces of linoleum adorned the floor. Each summer, a new strip of flypaper was added to the ceiling, turning black over the months. The icebox, serviced weekly with a block of ice, occupied a dark hallway behind the kitchen. The remaining spaces, more than mere alcoves but less than full-fledged rooms, served as beds for our family and visiting relatives.
Eventually, my father managed to install a bathroom, relieving us of the spider-filled outhouse. Despite not having a proper furnace or boiler, he devised a clever system using pipes to provide hot water by harnessing the sun’s heat. Even on cloudy days, our water remained warm. This was solar heating in the 1940s – a testament to my father’s ingenuity.
The house was not beautiful, nor was it particularly comfortable, but it served its purpose as a shelter. It stood as a testament to my father’s determination and craftsmanship. The roof was sound, the pipes delivered water, and there were no electrical fires or structural collapses. Its uniqueness ensured it would never serve as a template for others.
Each September, we returned to the city where I attended school, eagerly awaiting the arrival of June when we could return to the place that was the center of my world and the origin of my existence. It was there that my great-aunt taught me to read, my father taught me to swim, I made my first best friend, experienced my first period, and had my first taste of love and heartbreak with Freddy. Love, desire, and heartbreak encapsulated in one place.
But as I reached my twelfth or thirteenth summer, something went awry between my father and me. When he first learned that his first child was a daughter, he proudly declared, “I like girls.” He did indeed adore children, including me above all else. He didn’t spoil me with indulgence; instead, he showed his love through teasing. He exhibited a remarkable amount of patience and taught me valuable lessons about life.
However, our relationship soured during that particular summer. The details of our disagreement and its impact on our bond were known only to us. Despite this, the house remained a symbol of my childhood, a place that shaped my formative years and held memories of both joy and turmoil.
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