Home at Last

home remedies for aging houses

If your home is wearing out faster than you are, get busy with the checkups, ditch the clutter, and don’t shy from a little nip-tuck.

By Christine Mather
Photograph by Thais Mather

This article first appeared in Spring 2008 Su Casa

If my home is a living, organic, sentient being, it will begin falling apart in mysterious, unpredictable ways, just like me. Just recently I came to the realization that I am in a transitional phase of life. That is to say, I am growing older—I have joined the “young old.” This realization came while hanging out with my beloved comadres, the Chicas, a group that formed through years of being together in our pursuit of Spanish; it is a group that consists of both profesoras y alumnas (teachers and students, and I am definitely a member of the latter). When we meet, it is always a rush of trying to learn how and what everyone is doing; children usually head the list. Suddenly our conversation left the subject of our now-adult children and veered precipitously into that vast territory of health and retirement. Let’s face it, once your son has become an astrophysicist, how can he conceivably compete for attention with the knee operation coming up on Monday?

So there we were, knee-deep in a world of widow’s benefits and polyps, nattering at each other about health checkups and when to pull the trigger on retirement. This was a far cry from our salad days of trips to Spain and kids, dogs, and spouses. Perhaps one subject that can draw us back from the brink of decrepitude is our homes. Just as we once seamlessly made the switch from fashion to shelter magazines while awaiting the drill at the dentist’s office, now we can see clearly that our homes embody us. They may well have become our alter egos, and just like us, they need to stay in good health. So while we may have to hang it all up someday soon, we can make sure that our homes live far beyond us. Think pyramids, really big walls, cathedrals—these man-made monuments have probably been patched up by women with very serious honey-do lists. If we intend for our homes to be monuments to ourselves, we better make sure to keep their cholesterol under control.

Does your home have clogged arteries? Mine is a heart attack waiting to happen. All the new zone valves in the world aren’t going to help it if the emergency crew can’t get in the door for the pile of stuff blocking the way. Eliminating clutter is the single biggest challenge for those of us who haunt the world of art, live in a nostalgic fog, and can’t resist a bargain—especially of anything that could vaguely qualify as antique.

As I become more antique myself, the siren’s call of saving every little bit of the past is almost irresistible. The drawers are stuffed, the closets billowing, the main arteries clogged to a statin fare-thee-well by centuries-old furniture. My home is drowning in the object equivalent of chocolate-covered cream. Because I cannot hope to ever eliminate all of the accumulation, I could consider various tricky quick fixes, such as buying a second home, a type of cloning that might buy a brief reprieve from possible death by drowning in one’s own clutter—but then we all remember what happened to Dolly. No, it would be a far better thing to take one’s oatmeal and get on with the sorting of stuff, farming some out to the kids—if they will have it—and moving the rest on to the local charitable thrift store.

As for the other big but largely preventable diseases, in New Mexico one never needs to put off the veritable mammogram, prostate, or colonoscopy checkup equivalent—making sure you have a healthy roof or adequate drainage. Even if you don’t live in an old adobe—which can slip away to a disastrous end by a silent killer, roof leaks—chances are excellent that you have a flat roof, which also demands due diligence. Ironically, water hazards abound in a state with little water because we are often unprepared for the sudden deluge that strikes upon rock-hard ground unable to absorb the blast. Flooding seems to come with the territory. I have yet to live in a New Mexico home that hasn’t flooded—from above or below or at ground level.

What will not kill the home but certainly make it less attractive are the flabby thighs, graying hair, and varicose veins of outdatedness. Some would have us update the appliances, redo the bathrooms and kitchen, make sure that each surface is fresh and new, go under the plastic surgeon’s knife of youthful renewal, Botox away the evidence of aging. With homes, as with our bodies, such renovation can be costly and painful but maybe worth it, especially if you want to be on the market. But nothing beats a fresh coat of paint—a homey equivalent of a wardrobe uptick or a good haircut—to stave off signs of aging.

Finally, we have the factor of inheritance, the good genes or great bones of a home. Certainly a timeless, classic style and solid materials, great fit and finish, handmade irreplaceability, and location, location, location are the bases of a long, fruitful, and healthy home life. All the annual checkups, exercise, and careful eating in the world can’t save a loser in the great gene pool crapshoot. Fortunately for us, and despite the seemingly fragile nature of the traditional building materials of New Mexican homes, we have been the biggest winners of the genetic lottery in the United States. We can boast the longest continuously inhabited homes in the country. Our ancient homes within the Pueblos testify to the fact that location is, indeed, everything and that making do with one’s natural gifts and good health is the best formula for longevity and beauty.

Christine Mather is a museum curator, as well as an author of Santa Fe Style, Santa Fe Houses, Native America, and True West, volumes that explore design and lifestyle.