I once owned a 2400 square foot hillside home with a spectacular, unobstructed view of Downtown LA. During my 4-year ownership, my then boyfriend and I used the living room a total of 3 times, the formal dining room less than 10 and the guest room, once. Though the house wowed, I wasn’t happy. In fact, I was far from it.
This house had been a gift to myself for working hard and was a significant “upgrade” from my little house–a 940 square foot, 1928 Spanish revival that sat at the bottom of this massive hill. Two years after buying the big house, I rented it out and moved back into my little house.
I realized that I missed the fruit of my painstaking restoration–the handmade tiles that found permanent homes on the walls of my kitchen, the original oak floors I refinished, the original arches, moldings, glass doorknobs and the lathe and plaster walls that survived nearly 100 years through countless California earthquakes. I missed my one true love and felt saddened that I had succumbed to the lure of the McMansion–the big house that was devoid of history, character and personality. It was just a collection of rooms that we didn’t use and lacked the warmth and memories we’d created in all 940 square feet of our little home.
When did little the little house become synonymous with “less than” instead of “just the right fit?” A little home doesn’t necessarily have to be small, just not as big as you thought you needed. It’s the perfectly-sized home that beams with quality over quantity and fits the way you really live. Needless to say, the big house was just not me and I’m sure for many of you, it’s just not you. My little house has soul–sweet, sweet soul. She’s one-of-a-kind, unique, irreplaceable and at 84, still the prettiest girl on the block.