Being the Funk in Tupperware Heights
Twelve years ago today, May 28th, Dan and I bought this house:
I wanted something with charm, but we couldn’t afford the Victorian charm of the historic district and its attendant early-1900‘s sloping floors, rag-tag foundations and two-bit plumbing.
I had imagined us in a funkier neighborhood, with ancient apple trees, stalled out VW buses doubling as alleyway housing, old-growth lilacs swallowing brick walls. My mailman scoffingly called this neighborhood–our new neighborhood–Tupperware Heights because of its 1950’s ranch-style, vinyl-sided homes and lawns forged right out of the mold marked “rectangle.” I lamented to Dan that our neighbors appeared to be old-school, straight-laced, herbicide-users.
Dan, in his wise and practical manner, saw the potential of the property. This house had the south-facing orientation we were seeking for our future sunroom/greenhouse. The backyard was enormously large, and though I was disappointed there was not a single tree on the property, Dan saw it as a blank canvas for us to paint the landscape of our dreams. He advised “befriend the neighbors, let it fuel your writing.”
This is the blank canvas backyard May 28th, 1998:
And August, 2009:
Remember the original front of the house?
Twelve years later:
In addition to our vegetable garden, we’ve planted 3 apple trees, 2 peach trees, 3 crabapples, 1 cottonwood, 2 lilacs, 1 apricot, 2 chokecherries, 1 serviceberry, 1 gooseberry, 2 plums, a clump of aspens, 2 hops vines, rhubarb, a strawberry patch, comfrey, a perennial herb garden, and a smattering of wild roses.
Dan built that dreamed-of sunroom with ponderosa pine logs we cut on National Forest, six miles from our house, and hauled home in our Toyota truck (still running, twelve years later). The sunroom frame is post and beam–hand-cut joinery–not a nail in the joint.