We bought our house in the lower Avenues neighborhood of Salt Lake City back when dinosaurs roamed the Earth, which (frankly) is why we could afford it. The house was in the process of being reconverted into a single-family dwelling. Like many old homes in the Avenues, it had been turned into apartments during the Depression, which meant our upstairs was a rabbit warren of tiny rooms with sinks in the closets. We had our work cut out for us. But I didn’t care.
Do you know why I didn’t care?
Because the first time I walked into the house I knew it would be a great place to put up a Christmas tree.
So yeah. There’s my helpful real-estate tip for the day: By all means buy yourself a house simply because you think a Christmas tree would look awesome standing in a corner. You’re welcome!
Anyway, we’ve now lived in this home for more than 30 years. And although I’ve sometimes felt like an indentured servant — restoring and maintaining a house that’s over a 100 years old is more work than I ever dreamed it would be — I don’t regret our decision to do it, mostly because our Christmas tree does, in fact, look awesome standing in a corner.
Meanwhile, I’ve come to value something about this house that I barely noticed when we bought it: the generous front porch. Front porches weren’t a deal in the neighborhood of ranch houses where I grew up. They were the place where you stood when you rang someone’s doorbell.
But with its roof and balustrade, our old-fashioned front porch is more of an outdoor room where people can sit, surrounded by pots of geraniums, and watch the world go by — something I’ve happily done for three decades now. Except for that summer when somebody stole all my pots of geraniums and I called the cops because I was SO MAD and a cop wearing mirrored sunglasses actually came out to investigate (slow day at the station!) (also a lot of years ago!). He told me that plant theft was an actual thing and that he’d recently investigated a case where thieves had dug up newly planted fruit trees.
“The thieves knew what they were doing,” he said with a hint of admiration. “They didn’t disturb the root ball or anything.”
But police officers talking about root balls isn’t the point. The point is that I received a lovely email from a reader named Gail Warr that made me think about all of this.
“Have you ever written a column about front porches?” Gail asks. “Yesterday while riding TRAX to the fair, I noticed the older houses on West Temple and their porches. It reminded me of my grandparents’ porches and the fun we had on them. I also have a big front porch that I sit on every day when the weather is warm, mostly in the evenings.”
Gail goes on. “I have lived here for 53 years and I have so many memories — kids playing on the lawn, kids walking home from school, neighbors walking their dogs, decorations for the holidays. I love each year on the Fourth of July to sit there and watch the neighbors’ kids across the street light their sparklers and the fireworks they bought at the store. So fun. No need to go to the park.”
Gail ends the email this way: “Remember on TV when Aunt Bea and Andy and Opie sat on the porch and talked? I wish sometimes more people would slow down and sit outside for a while, get to know their neighbors and relax.”
Not a bad wish, right?