Farewell to beauty

     Every morning, as I drive up the dirt road that leads to the hillside, I experience a small moment of joy. As I ascend the final hill and come around a bend in the road, there she is. Up on the hillside, through a stand of oaks, birches and an occasional hemlock, stands a stout wooden structure that looks as if she belongs there. It was a goal of ours to have our house sit in its surroundings comfortably. Equitably, if you will. The hillside is as important to the house’s character as is the shape of the house itself, and they should work in tandem to create one whole entity. One doesn’t dominate the other. And if your view of the world tends to lean towards romanticism, you might even think that the house has grown from the site, as opposed to being built upon it.
     The fact that the house on the hillside is constructed of solid wood lends itself to this sentiment. If she was sheathed in plywood, or stick framed every sixteen inches with 2x4’s, the marriage of house and nature would be harder to achieve. But built as she is--stout, sturdy and natural—you truly can see the connection of the house to the hillside, and be grateful that the hillside has opened its arms to embrace her.
     My favorite photo of the house captures this viewpoint. I took it because I knew that as we moved into the roof sheathing phase, the harmony I have come to cherish, the moment of joy, will be a bit lessened. We are applying Typar house wrap on the roof as we progress upward, introducing an unnatural (though wholly necessary) element to our structure. Though it is a welcome symbol of progress, it is a bittersweet victory. Gone is the symphony of wood I have come to cherish every morning as I approach the hillside. It is muted by house wrap and blue tarps, the deepest notes deadened, the purest tones lost.  So I ask you to keep this view in mind in the weeks to come, and still strive to hear the music of the hillside.

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