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
