Saturday, November 24, 2012

The Houses in Which We Live No. 1: Cape Cod and Craftsman

Now THAT'S a tree house.
Beaux Arts. Colonial. Gothic. Modern. Queen Anne. Tudor. All names for house styles. Those involved in building design often throw around these words, along with a plethora of others—but what, exactly, do they mean? You may see a photo of a house you like captioned “Cape Cod.” You may think to yourself—“Aha! This style of house must be popular in Massachusetts.” You would be right about that. Just as you would be right in thinking that Elizabethan style homes have something to do with Queen Elizabeth and that Ranch style homes are, quite often, found on ranches. If you’re anything like me (and I certainly don’t expect you to be—I like you just the way you are), you may be curious about the deeper history beneath these labels. Now, I’m sure my History of Architecture professor was thorough, and I do distinctly remember learning about Bauhaus, but a lot of other details from that class have grown strangely fuzzy. And not—“Hey, if I just cut off the moldy piece maybe I can still eat this cheese” kind of fuzzy. More like—“Hey, if I just pull my hat down over my eyes maybe I can have a quick nap” kind of fuzzy. So, I invite you to join me as I refresh my memory, and hopefully learn something new, about the houses in which we live. I’ll begin with two styles that are of particular interest to me—because I’m using them for inspiration in the design of my own house: Cape Cod and Craftsman.  

Traditional Cape Cod style home.
Cape Cod
First built by seventeenth-century English colonists in, you guessed it, New England, the Cape Cod home was originally popular because of its practicality. Although modern versions of the Cape Cod often borrow from other styles, incorporating features like wrap-around porches and more decorative elements, the early incarnations were plain and easy to build. The Cape Cod’s simplicity encouraged a revival of the style after the Second World War and, in the late 1940s, the real estate development company Levitt & Sons began turning out as much as thirty, pre-fabricated Cape Cod houses per day.  (Not-so-fun-fact: The Levitt’s business venture earned William Levitt, one of the “& Sons,” the nickname “The King of Suburbia” and he is often blamed for North America’s current infatuation with suburban sprawl.) Although part of the Cape Cod’s legacy is mass-production, it is still considered a “quaint” style and is popular far beyond America’s east coast. Below is a Cape Cod (and Colonial) inspired townhouse, located in Edmonton’s Griesbach neighborhood. As I already mentioned, the Cape Cod is often blended with other styles to create hybrids (as seen with the Griesbach townhouses). One style that Cape Cod is often paired with—the Craftsman.
Cape Cod and Colonial styles were mixed in the design of
these Edmonton townhouses.

Craftsman
Also known as Arts and Crafts after the design movement that inspired it, Craftsman style celebrates simple forms and natural materials. In late nineteenth century England, the Arts and Crafts movement began as a reaction to the Industrial Revolution, when—I’m sure—it seemed as if the evil, evil machines were going to take over. (Times haven’t changed too much, have they?) Arts and Crafts celebrated the skilled artisan and encouraged hand-made over mass-produced.
From the July 1916 issue of The Craftsman.

Over the pond, designer Gustav Stickley adopted the movement in 1903 when he renovated the interior of his Syracuse, New York home. Originally, a “true” Craftsman was built according to plans published in Stickley’s magazine of the same name, but now the term refers to any home that incorporates Craftsman features like triangular brackets beneath the eaves, an exterior stone chimney and a porch with thick, stone columns. Although it’s a bit ironic that the Cape Cod ended up as a symbol of mass-production, its simple beginnings explain why it’s often paired with Craftsman sensibilities. (Click here to read about a traditional Cape Cod home that received a Craftsman facelift.)

Got a house style you’re just dying to know more about? Instead of googling it yourself, why don’t you let me do it for you! (And then synthesize the scads of information generated into an enlightening and witty blog post.) If this sounds like your kind of fun—post your request in the comments!
Cape Cod home before a Craftsman inspired renovation...
... and after.

Monday, November 12, 2012

Not Quite Winter

Although, technically it isn't winter yet (the official season is still more than a month away), here in Edmonton, Alberta we're used to the white stuff coming a little too early most years. I'll admit, most of my life I haven't been a winter-person (funny, seeing it hyphenated like that makes me think of blue-haired, pale-skinned creatures that run around naked in minus thirty weather... or am I the only one who sees them?). I'm always cold. I suck at snowboarding. I already dislike driving even when the roads are clean as a whistle (what is up with that saying, are whistles seriously cleanyou'd think they'd be all moist and saliva-y), so you can imagine that when the roads are covered in ice, which is covered in snow, which is then covered in more iceas they are nowI would rather just stay inside and hibernate. But this year, I've decided things are going to be different. Part of the reason for this is an article I read that suggests us Canadians need to embrace winter and states "there is no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing." Now that I'm dressing more appropriatelywe're talking three layers minimum, even when I'm insidethis theory is proving to be [mostly] true. But the biggest reason I've decided to adopt a new attitude about the fogged-up-glasses-frozen-nose-hairs-can't-wear-flip-flops-anymore season has to do with our land. 

There's something about forty-acres of rolling hills and hoar-frosted trees that just warms the cuckolds of my summer-lovin' heart. I spent yesterday traipsing through knee-high snowdrifts, trailing after my husband and taking photographs. Still in the planning stages of our house-building, we threw around ideas about ponds and manmade waterfalls (I'm not overly fond of faking something that usually comes, well, naturally, but we live a little too far east in this province to have any real waterfalls and they're just so damn pretty). It would seem owning a tree farm just around the corner from our future home might actually happen. I'm always surprised when an idea I had assumed would stay an idea becomes reality. Of course, being a bit of a skeptic, I'm still in the "I'll believe it about two years after I've seen it" phase. I'm a bit slow when it comes to processing things. I chalk it up to my cautious nature. Hmm... I think I just figured out why I'm so terrible at snowboarding.




If cattails can survive the winter, so can I.

Monday, November 5, 2012

Tree of the Day No. 1: Japanese Tree Lilac (Syringa reticulate)


As I already mentioned—I have a thing for trees. And, because of this “thing," I want to dedicate a post every now and then to regurgitating information I’ve learned about a specific type of tree, interwoven with my own musings and anecdotes about the post’s chosen species. And, contrary to the title I've selected for this reoccurring "segment," I'm not going to write about a new tree every single day. I may have spent the last two hours making sure my images link to my Pinterest account (which I later undid), but I actually do have a life outside of the cyber-realm. Now that the explanations are out of the way, shall we proceed?

The Japanese Tree Lilac is the largest species of lilac and can grow to a height of 12 meters (and, in rare cases, 15 meters). Now, I may be a Canadian, but I’ve never been a fan of the metric system and my aversion to it was only increased when the architectural technology instructors at NAIT allowed us to substitute in the imperial system on our working drawings. So, for all you fellow imperialists (yes, I realize I’m stretching the meaning of the term), that means a mature JTL will stand at about 30 to 50 feet. Did I not warn you in the previous post there would be meandering?

The JTL is the only species of lilac “that regularly makes a small tree rather than a shrub.” I’m not quite sure what that sentence from Wikipedia is trying to convey, but I do remember reading in Lois Hole’s Favorite Trees and Shrubs that a JTL can be pruned so that it takes the shape of a tree instead of a shrub, which is its natural form.

I would say the Japanese Tree Lilac is one of my favorite, if not my absolute favorite tree of all time (no offense to all of the other lovely tree types out there—don’t fret, I’ll expound on the glories of you in later posts). This is mostly due to the smell of its flowers. I’ve always adored the smell of lilacs. As a kid, the neighbors two doors down from my house had a hedge of purple lilacs (Syringa vulgaris aka the common lilac) that I spent a fair amount of time hovering over and inhaling. Whenever I get a whiff of a lilac’s “musk-scented” flower (that less-than-appealing fragrance description brought to you by Lois Hole), I stop in my tracks and pivot until I spot the source. Quite often I end up with my nose touching the petals, meaning the blossoms actually enter my nostrils when I breathe in. There’s a magnificent Japanese Tree Lilac on the University of Alberta campus over by the Earth Sciences building that I would take a picture of and post here, but alas—as with all good things—the JTL is only in bloom for a very brief window during summer. It being November now, and there being snow on the ground as I type this, means that— while still beautiful—the University’s tree is flowerless and thus, kind of sad.

Aside from the JTL’s scent, which I’m quite certain I’ve dedicated enough time to discussing, the creamy ivory colour of its flowers is another thing I love. I know that most people like flowers for their wide variety of colour, and often they will try and have as many shades in their yard as they can, but I admit I have a thing for plain white flowers. I’m pretty obsessive when it comes to things being organized and tidy and I often fantasize about the consistency of a monochromatic garden. And—surprise, surprise—a quick shot over to Google has proven, once again, that every idea I’ve ever had was thought up by someone else first. 



I swear I equally embrace all colours of the rainbow (well, except for pink—my apologies to three year old girls, but I just ain't a fan).

The road that will one day lead to our new house was only just built, but I’ve already decided that I’m going to plant a Japanese Tree Lilac in the centre of the turnaround. Of course, there’s no point planting a new tree in the midst of a construction site so, the day I get to breathe flower blossoms into my nostrils on my own property is still in the distant future. It’s a good thing I’m [relatively] patient.