The neighborhoods in my hometown
are a mishmash of house styles. The
oldest houses are pre-World War I bungalows;
then come the brick tudors from
the 1920s with their steep pitched
gables, and the Dutch colonials with
their barnlike silhouettes, mixed in with
the occasional rambler from the fifties.
These diverse styles coexist peacefully,
and the variety they bring gives the
neighborhoods charm and appeal.
Every once in a while a new house goes
up, either from a tear-down or someone
selling off a side lot. And whenever the
telltale excavator and porta-potty show
up, we all cringe — because we know the
new house will likely be the ugliest one
on the street. With a couple