A house is not a home. Sometimes it’s an aircraft carrier. You could launch an F-15 from the decks of some chateaux hereabouts. I know we’re in Greater Atlanta, but does that have to be so literal?
Why are big houses an obsession here? Maybe it’s because of Atlanta’s feisty, rising-from-the-ashes history.
Whatever the reason, local folks regard house viewing as a bona fide sport.
My policy on the subject is simple. I don’t want to see a house owned by anyone else. Either it’s not as good as mine, in which case I don’t care, or it’s a lot nicer and I could never afford it, so why be consumed by envy? But mine is a churlish dissent, especially this time of year. Spring is the peak season for house-hopping. Amid a swirl of azalea blooms and F-2 funnel clouds, let us consider the various venues:
– The Open House. Sellers invite people in to market their home. A friend of mine did this and was amazed to find dozens of folks tromping through his hearth. He was even more astonished by the following dialogue, which took place more than once:
He: So are you interested in buying the place?
Visitor: No.
He: Are you interested in buying a place?
Visitor: Not really.
He: Then why are you in my house?
(That last line, of course, was wishful speaking.)
– The Decorator House. In this case, nonbuyers are welcome. Pony up X number of dollars to benefit a worthy cause. Stroll through a cushily outfitted manse/grounds that would normally be gated, locked and land-mined against the mangy likes of you.
Against my better judgment, I was cajoled into one such excursion. We edged our way up a sinuously long driveway, strewn with the bones of mailmen who had lost their way en route to the front door. I already felt like a peasant, but there was an added indignity at the door. In the interest of cleanliness, tour guides had us pull surgical scrubs over our shoes. With my size 13 feet, I felt rather conspicuous as the captain of two sky-blue gunboats.
The decorator home truly was gorgeous. But it’s funny what people gravitate toward. There’s a 17th-century Flemish tapestry in the hall and an 18th-century Fragonard oil in the drawing room, but everyone’s jammed in the kitchen, hearing a contractor explain the new Hide-A-Pantry system:
“Just pull this handle,” he explained.
“Oooooh!” said we all.
“And presto — recessed storage space.”
“Ahhhhh!”
I guess it was the only thing everyone could relate to. Because other rooms in the decorator house had odd, unfamiliar names. What you or I might call the den had morphed into a dimly lit, high-tech bank of screens, buttons and switches dubbed “The Family Media Center.”
My favorite place was a little side vestibule, resplendent with vases of fresh flowers, lush wallpaper and a swoon couch for milady. “This,” a guide proudly explained, “is the Retreat Room.”
Excuse me, but retreat from what? This is one of the most beautiful houses I’ve ever seen. If I owned this place, I’d be running through every inch of it 24 hours a day screaming, “It’s mine, mine, mine!”
– The Model House. In searching for my own slice of heavily mortgaged heaven, I must have been in three dozen of these. Trouble really looms here, because the model house, like model people, is a wildly inaccurate version of reality. The colors are in perfect harmony, the acorn pattern in the crown molding complements the oak leaf design of the newel post. You forget that the new place will wind up looking like your old place, where dirty socks are slow-dancing with 6-pound dust bunnies.
There’s a curious aspect to these massive palazzos. Despite their swelling girth, the patch of land they come with is constantly shrinking. With two-income families the rule and 60-hour workweeks de rigueur, no one has time to trim the shrubs. Evolution is at work here — toward final extinction of the yard.
Which brings us to the last stop on our tour:
– The Impossibly Big Old House. This antique lifestyle, maintained by hundreds of livery-clad servants, was killed off after Congress ratified the income tax in 1913. I enjoy these tours, because no one actually exists in this kind of luxury anymore. Even when they did, the malicious hand of fate tended to intervene:
“Mr. VanBigbee did not live to enjoy his new home,” the guide always says. “Six months after his 158-room mansion was completed, he met an untimely end during Mardi Gras 1906, in a freak accident involving two Gibson girls, a trapeze and pitcher of frozen margaritas.”
It’s probably just as well. After a party like that, going home would be kind of dull.
