The House That Built Her
A rented home and borrowed history gave this writer roots
Shana Levy McCracken
June 21, 2017
Houzz Contributor. Shana is a sustainability consultant who lives and works in the San Francisco Bay Area. She holds a Green MBA as well as a master's degree in Culture, Ecology & Sustainable Community and a bachelor's in Conservation & Resource Studies. Shana has been an environmental communications professional for over 20 years now.
Houzz Contributor. Shana is a sustainability consultant who lives and works in the... More
Growing up with a single mom and no other family nearby, I felt pretty rootless as a kid. My mother has often recounted the story of the elementary school psychologist who showed her a picture I drew of myself with very large, dark feet. The psychologist interpreted my drawing to mean that I was very focused on my roots and perhaps lacked a sense of being grounded in the world.
But the situation wasn’t hopeless. Eventually, I was able to find a sense of rootedness and security in the place where we lived — our quirky, solid, beautiful rented house.
But the situation wasn’t hopeless. Eventually, I was able to find a sense of rootedness and security in the place where we lived — our quirky, solid, beautiful rented house.
The author’s Marin County childhood home is pictured in 2015. Photo by Shana Levy McCracken
The house was a large Craftsman built in San Rafael, California, in 1902. We moved there when I was 3 and stayed until I was 11, then moved back shortly before I turned 16.
Ivy covered much of the home, and it had a turret at one end — a holdover from the preceding Victorian era, I suppose. Large trees and gnarled old rose bushes surrounded the house, and stone pillars bracketed the brick path that led to the front stairs. The front porch was so spacious and classic that location scouts once asked if they could use it for a movie, the sequel to American Graffiti, as I recall.
The house had been divided into a duplex, and we lived in the bottom story. Since the lower half of the house wasn’t designed for round-the-clock living, it didn’t have bedrooms. The dining room served as my mother’s bedroom, with a pass-through to the kitchen under a beautiful built-in china cabinet. My room was a sort of alcove between the dining and living rooms, with just enough space to squeeze in a bed. I used to prepare friends who hadn’t yet visited my room by explaining that “it only has three walls.”
The upstairs apartment was occupied by an enchanting bohemian couple: he an acid-dropping sculptor who worked in wire and let me watch him weld in his basement studio, she a charismatic German who wore wild patchwork skirts and owned a margay, which is a small, exotic cat similar to an ocelot. Tara the margay frequently wandered into our downstairs apartment, startling us and our more conventional cats. A sitar player, who happened to be the son of a famous actor, also lived in the upstairs apartment. Later, a stained glass artist moved in and allowed me to watch her work in her basement studio.
Our house and its colorful assortment of occupants and visitors was different from those of my friends. But most of the time, I perceived those differences as making it special, not lesser. Quirky or not, our house was solid. Even the great San Francisco quake of 1906 had barely touched it. Supported by a massive stone foundation, the house girded our little family and gave us a sense of security — even legitimacy — that we needed more than anything at that time. This was a real house, and it made us feel more like a real family, even though it was just the two of us. We had “two cats in the yard” and frequently quoted the Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young song containing those lyrics, noting that, indeed, ours was a “very, very, very fine house.”
The house was a large Craftsman built in San Rafael, California, in 1902. We moved there when I was 3 and stayed until I was 11, then moved back shortly before I turned 16.
Ivy covered much of the home, and it had a turret at one end — a holdover from the preceding Victorian era, I suppose. Large trees and gnarled old rose bushes surrounded the house, and stone pillars bracketed the brick path that led to the front stairs. The front porch was so spacious and classic that location scouts once asked if they could use it for a movie, the sequel to American Graffiti, as I recall.
The house had been divided into a duplex, and we lived in the bottom story. Since the lower half of the house wasn’t designed for round-the-clock living, it didn’t have bedrooms. The dining room served as my mother’s bedroom, with a pass-through to the kitchen under a beautiful built-in china cabinet. My room was a sort of alcove between the dining and living rooms, with just enough space to squeeze in a bed. I used to prepare friends who hadn’t yet visited my room by explaining that “it only has three walls.”
The upstairs apartment was occupied by an enchanting bohemian couple: he an acid-dropping sculptor who worked in wire and let me watch him weld in his basement studio, she a charismatic German who wore wild patchwork skirts and owned a margay, which is a small, exotic cat similar to an ocelot. Tara the margay frequently wandered into our downstairs apartment, startling us and our more conventional cats. A sitar player, who happened to be the son of a famous actor, also lived in the upstairs apartment. Later, a stained glass artist moved in and allowed me to watch her work in her basement studio.
Our house and its colorful assortment of occupants and visitors was different from those of my friends. But most of the time, I perceived those differences as making it special, not lesser. Quirky or not, our house was solid. Even the great San Francisco quake of 1906 had barely touched it. Supported by a massive stone foundation, the house girded our little family and gave us a sense of security — even legitimacy — that we needed more than anything at that time. This was a real house, and it made us feel more like a real family, even though it was just the two of us. We had “two cats in the yard” and frequently quoted the Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young song containing those lyrics, noting that, indeed, ours was a “very, very, very fine house.”
The author took this photo of the side of the house, including the turret, in 1979, shortly before she and her mother moved away. “I wanted to capture every detail of the home I loved so much,” she says. Photo by Shana Levy McCracken.
When I was 8, my mom’s boyfriend moved in, and three years later all of us moved to a sketchier part of town. My mom and her boyfriend bought a house, which was supposed to represent progress over renting. But it never felt that way. After several difficult years, it was clear that the relationship wasn’t healthy, and my mom and I moved out.
My mom planned to purchase a small townhouse on the nearby Army base, where we qualified for affordable housing. But before signing the papers, she made a call to the owner of the wonderful duplex apartment where we’d lived previously. Miraculously, our beloved former landlady called back to offer us the place. We were hopeful that we would soon feel safe and grounded again. We were going home.
When my mom drove up the long drive and parked our car in front of the old barn-like garage, our cat Louise jumped out of the car and strolled through the yard nonchalantly, as if we’d never left. It was a good omen. Soon, I was able to walk to school with my old friend from elementary school and reconnect with others I’d been missing. I started to thrive again academically. I plunged into every activity I could: cheerleading, the school musical, Spanish club. For two years of high school, that driveway and garage became the focal point of my high school class during homecoming season, as a crew of us pitched in to build our class float.
When I was 8, my mom’s boyfriend moved in, and three years later all of us moved to a sketchier part of town. My mom and her boyfriend bought a house, which was supposed to represent progress over renting. But it never felt that way. After several difficult years, it was clear that the relationship wasn’t healthy, and my mom and I moved out.
My mom planned to purchase a small townhouse on the nearby Army base, where we qualified for affordable housing. But before signing the papers, she made a call to the owner of the wonderful duplex apartment where we’d lived previously. Miraculously, our beloved former landlady called back to offer us the place. We were hopeful that we would soon feel safe and grounded again. We were going home.
When my mom drove up the long drive and parked our car in front of the old barn-like garage, our cat Louise jumped out of the car and strolled through the yard nonchalantly, as if we’d never left. It was a good omen. Soon, I was able to walk to school with my old friend from elementary school and reconnect with others I’d been missing. I started to thrive again academically. I plunged into every activity I could: cheerleading, the school musical, Spanish club. For two years of high school, that driveway and garage became the focal point of my high school class during homecoming season, as a crew of us pitched in to build our class float.
I didn’t have strong family roots of my own, but I could borrow from our rented house the ones established by its original occupants. As a teenager, I set up a room in the basement of our house as my hangout, where I discovered family treasures stored there: straw and velvet hats from the turn of the century, a framed newspaper clipping about a lithography business in San Francisco, a little Cinderella wind-up doll, missing her prince (though she still twirled quite happily on her own). They weren’t my things, but I treasured them nonetheless.
During our first round of living in the house, my mom had periodically marked my height on the shingles of the front porch, alongside the markings still there from the original family’s children — all of them by then long grown. I still remember the disorientation I felt when I saw the landlord’s name, age and height, marked down from his childhood, on the wall. By the time I knew him, he was an old man.
When we returned to live in the house a second time, the markings were still there, including mine. I realized that the history of the owner’s family had melded with my own, creating a sort of hybrid lineage that filled in a few of the gaps in my genealogical tree. Borrowing their past shored up my own origin story and made me feel more consequential in the world.
During our first round of living in the house, my mom had periodically marked my height on the shingles of the front porch, alongside the markings still there from the original family’s children — all of them by then long grown. I still remember the disorientation I felt when I saw the landlord’s name, age and height, marked down from his childhood, on the wall. By the time I knew him, he was an old man.
When we returned to live in the house a second time, the markings were still there, including mine. I realized that the history of the owner’s family had melded with my own, creating a sort of hybrid lineage that filled in a few of the gaps in my genealogical tree. Borrowing their past shored up my own origin story and made me feel more consequential in the world.
Because our house was so old, the landscaping was well-established. One of the more striking features was a passion flower vine, with lush foliage and stunning purple flowers, that climbed a trellis to the second story on the back of the house. One day in high school I decided to prune this glorious vine, just to thin it a bit and clear away the dead areas. It took great effort to cut through one particular branch, but using a lopping shears and all my might, I conquered it. The only problem was that particularly stubborn branch was actually the main trunk of the vine.
Soon the entire thing died and turned a shabby brown. I was embarrassed about my overzealous pruning and heartbroken that I’d ruined such a lovely feature of the house, and at the thought of killing a living thing. My mom told the landlord of my misdeed, but he understood that it was unintentional and let it go. Thankfully, the vine slowly grew back and eventually covered the tall trellis at the back of the house, resplendent once again with amethyst blooms.
Soon the entire thing died and turned a shabby brown. I was embarrassed about my overzealous pruning and heartbroken that I’d ruined such a lovely feature of the house, and at the thought of killing a living thing. My mom told the landlord of my misdeed, but he understood that it was unintentional and let it go. Thankfully, the vine slowly grew back and eventually covered the tall trellis at the back of the house, resplendent once again with amethyst blooms.
This is the author’s current home. Photo by Shana Levy McCracken.
Today I live with my husband in a small but charming home with its own endearing history. I feel a kind of rootedness here that I attribute in part to my childhood home. Perhaps, in a sense, that old Craftsman allowed me to develop a capacity to bond not just with it but with future homes as well.
Growing up, I heard people call our home “broken,” which galled me even then, and I rejected the notion outright. Our home was as whole as any could be, and even though there were only two of us, I knew my mom and I were a whole family as well. I believe that grand house strengthened my conviction that this was true, reassuring me each day that we mattered, and we were going to be OK.
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Tell us: Are you thankful for your childhood home? Please tell us about it in the Comments.
Today I live with my husband in a small but charming home with its own endearing history. I feel a kind of rootedness here that I attribute in part to my childhood home. Perhaps, in a sense, that old Craftsman allowed me to develop a capacity to bond not just with it but with future homes as well.
Growing up, I heard people call our home “broken,” which galled me even then, and I rejected the notion outright. Our home was as whole as any could be, and even though there were only two of us, I knew my mom and I were a whole family as well. I believe that grand house strengthened my conviction that this was true, reassuring me each day that we mattered, and we were going to be OK.
More
A First-Time Mom Finds Life Remade in the Family Cabin
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Tell us: Are you thankful for your childhood home? Please tell us about it in the Comments.
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What a lovely story - it made my day :)
Several years ago my father died and I had to move back into the home I grew up in in order to take care of my mother who could not manage alone. This is a large, exuberant mid century whose style I took for granted until recently, especially after my mother's own recent passing. The custom tile floors my tiny childhood feet loved for their coolness in the summer, the cedar planked interior walls I loved to draw my hands across, the period built-ins I could hide in, the 23-foot ceiling that can still give me a sense of awe.
Now preparing to sell, your beautifully written article was a great read. The youthful hangout complete with borrowed objects and your description of the feelings of security and familiarity so accurately accompany my current process of examining all these odd items of my own youth that my mother had so carefully saved, she a product of a 'broken' home and myself a product of an intact but unhappy one. What was once an exasperated, teenage "Why would anyone save this?" is now "I know why."
Although relieved to move on, your words have underlined my need to slow down and consider all this house has given me. The eventual letting go has made the memories of resentment and regret fade, those of protection and love grow stronger. Thanks for your words, they touched me in just the right spot.
Hello @Ignatius Reilly. I'm sorry I missed your comment above until now. Thanks so much for sharing your own story and for allowing me to be a small part of it. I hope you are well during this challenging time.