Photo courtesy Flickr
John, the cabinetmaker I mentioned on April 17, married a daughter of privilege who was in graduate school. The two were living on a tight budget with a young baby when I visited their Crown Hill rental house.
It was a decent postwar veteran’s place, utilitarian and nothing else, furnished with a motley accumulation of this and that to hold books, accommodate guests, and turn out meals. There was none of the usual concentration on objects as focal points-nothing was worth looking at, except the baby.
Not one cent had been wasted on foolishness. The living room and kitchen were the most sophisticated spaces I’d ever enjoyed. Placement and physical convenience took priority over inventory.
The front door of the house opened directly into the living room. The entry had been modified by setting a low bookcase to direct traffic into the kitchen and suggest a mild sense of division between entry and leisure space.
In the kitchen, John had cobbled a work table out of scrap lumber and set it on cinder blocks at the right height for chopping. The top was a clean scrap of salvaged plywood. The whole thing made as much sense as any kitchen I’d ever seen.