Estate of the Day

House-obsessed.
Once again Reader Squeaky S makes my day with a great submission. At the core of all things, when you get down to it, the one true purpose of a home is shelter, shelter from the elements, shelter from the world and all its bullshit. This one on 40 acres is just the kind of perfect shelter that lets in all the sunlight and greenery and wonder of the natural world, while keeping everything else away from you. Those high barn ceilings make me worry for heating bills but otherwise this one is pretty much perfect.  (via greene partners | architecture and design)

Once again Reader Squeaky S makes my day with a great submission. At the core of all things, when you get down to it, the one true purpose of a home is shelter, shelter from the elements, shelter from the world and all its bullshit. This one on 40 acres is just the kind of perfect shelter that lets in all the sunlight and greenery and wonder of the natural world, while keeping everything else away from you. Those high barn ceilings make me worry for heating bills but otherwise this one is pretty much perfect. 

(via greene partners | architecture and design)

1927, Mountain Brook, Alabama. An English country house built with an eye toward grandeur. The South always has had a special love for British countryside architecture and manor homes suitable for fox hunts and garden teas. The northerners sublimated their quest for royalty into universities and intellectual snobbery. The southerners choose to go big, more land, more horses—the sporting life writ large. No country squire could want for more. Yours for $3.2 million. 

1927, Mountain Brook, Alabama. An English country house built with an eye toward grandeur. The South always has had a special love for British countryside architecture and manor homes suitable for fox hunts and garden teas. The northerners sublimated their quest for royalty into universities and intellectual snobbery. The southerners choose to go big, more land, more horses—the sporting life writ large. No country squire could want for more. Yours for $3.2 million. 

They arrived full of the hope of a summer. Of romances and fresh berries, walks along the shore, tennis in the afternoons, gossip and gin. Mackinac Island, 1900. Lakewood cottage they called it, back when cottage meant a huge mansion and summer wasn’t a few hot weekends but was a whole season meant to be celebrated. Summer was to be saved for, saved time, saved money, all to be spent on creating saved memories, put away like canned fruit meant to sustain a family during the sunless months. Yours for $3.25 million.  (thanks to Squeaky Shooz for this great find)

They arrived full of the hope of a summer. Of romances and fresh berries, walks along the shore, tennis in the afternoons, gossip and gin. Mackinac Island, 1900. Lakewood cottage they called it, back when cottage meant a huge mansion and summer wasn’t a few hot weekends but was a whole season meant to be celebrated. Summer was to be saved for, saved time, saved money, all to be spent on creating saved memories, put away like canned fruit meant to sustain a family during the sunless months. Yours for $3.25 million. 

(thanks to Squeaky Shooz for this great find)

It was a wedding gift. These things were done in the 1880s. A man of power and influence would build a home and install a bride in it like putting an angel on top of a Christmans tree. She would be young, delicate, of a good family, expected to go from sewing classes and grammar lessons to managing a household, birthing a family and expanding into a family matriarch. It would have echoed first in the beginning, an ornate but empty box, then gradually, children, grandchild, parties. The clink of cut glass, the rustle of long skirts, cigar smoke in the library, laughter from the nursery—lives we can imagine but never quite understand. Now a bed and breakfast in Birdsboro, PA where people can stay for the night, imagine the grandeur but never the loneliness and the endless work nor the incredible pride both of owner and architect. From nothing we built this. Now it stands. Yours for $1.9 million. 

It was a wedding gift. These things were done in the 1880s. A man of power and influence would build a home and install a bride in it like putting an angel on top of a Christmans tree. She would be young, delicate, of a good family, expected to go from sewing classes and grammar lessons to managing a household, birthing a family and expanding into a family matriarch. It would have echoed first in the beginning, an ornate but empty box, then gradually, children, grandchild, parties. The clink of cut glass, the rustle of long skirts, cigar smoke in the library, laughter from the nursery—lives we can imagine but never quite understand. Now a bed and breakfast in Birdsboro, PA where people can stay for the night, imagine the grandeur but never the loneliness and the endless work nor the incredible pride both of owner and architect. From nothing we built this. Now it stands. Yours for $1.9 million. 

It’s the small details that sustain love. Pretty fades, always. But if your love is real, there’s something still to take delight in. The grace of a wrinkled wrist, the still elegant buttons on a threadbare coat, and here, that little round window in the attic of this 1864 home in Davenport, Iowa. Sure, she’s seen better days but she’s still worth renovating, worth fighting for, worth loving. Yours for $114,900. 

It’s the small details that sustain love. Pretty fades, always. But if your love is real, there’s something still to take delight in. The grace of a wrinkled wrist, the still elegant buttons on a threadbare coat, and here, that little round window in the attic of this 1864 home in Davenport, Iowa. Sure, she’s seen better days but she’s still worth renovating, worth fighting for, worth loving. Yours for $114,900. 

A friend of mine just moved to Minnesota from New York City. She was a midwest girl, the very sort of pretty girl who migrates, goes to the city, meets lots of other pretty girls, hustles, thrives and racks up those twentysomething memories that in retrospect seem like one long glittering montage. She married a tall man with soft eyes, they gathered cats, started building a life together that was bigger than an apartment. And so, back to Minnesota, to Minneapolis. Not a bad plan. Hopefully someday a house like this, one that combines the best of all that industry and bleeding edge have to offer with a view that you’ve got to travel for. Yours for $1.495 million.

A friend of mine just moved to Minnesota from New York City. She was a midwest girl, the very sort of pretty girl who migrates, goes to the city, meets lots of other pretty girls, hustles, thrives and racks up those twentysomething memories that in retrospect seem like one long glittering montage. She married a tall man with soft eyes, they gathered cats, started building a life together that was bigger than an apartment. And so, back to Minnesota, to Minneapolis. Not a bad plan. Hopefully someday a house like this, one that combines the best of all that industry and bleeding edge have to offer with a view that you’ve got to travel for. Yours for $1.495 million.

You started in Boston. They worked too hard there, rushing back and forth between tall gray buildings. Then you were in California and the days were sunnier and everyone wakes up later but they still rush around in their self-important hazes, beeping the horns in their luxury cars, sneering at you under sunglasses. So you end up here, in Pirate’s Alley, New Orleans in a colorful but refined house that lets you drop those hurry, hurry hang-ups. Where the heat lays you flat and everyone’s too big or too fancy to rush. The Southern amble, the stroll, all rump and swish. Civilization at last. Leisure doesn’t mean laziness despite what those self-help books might spew at you. Peace at last. If this doesn’t work, you’re gonna need an island. Yours for $1.55 million.

You started in Boston. They worked too hard there, rushing back and forth between tall gray buildings. Then you were in California and the days were sunnier and everyone wakes up later but they still rush around in their self-important hazes, beeping the horns in their luxury cars, sneering at you under sunglasses. So you end up here, in Pirate’s Alley, New Orleans in a colorful but refined house that lets you drop those hurry, hurry hang-ups. Where the heat lays you flat and everyone’s too big or too fancy to rush. The Southern amble, the stroll, all rump and swish. Civilization at last. Leisure doesn’t mean laziness despite what those self-help books might spew at you. Peace at last. If this doesn’t work, you’re gonna need an island. Yours for $1.55 million.