When my husband and I were first married, it was remarkable how we agreed on everything. When we bought our first house and chose paint colors, we easily found the perfect shades _ together. Chris had such a great sense of style. And, since we agreed on everything, well, so must I. Ah, the joys of marriage. A happy partnership, a harmonious team.
So what happened? Thirteen years, two children and one house later, it seems that when it comes to home improvement projects, we clash. He’s the burnt sienna to my indigo blue. When did he change his colors? Or did I change mine?
Maybe it started when he suggested installing wainscotting up the stairwell of our clearly Art Deco house in San Jose. (Can you believe that??!!??) But it was the back patio that seemed destined to do us in. When I’d lament to my friends, they were shocked that my husband, any husband, would have such strident opinions on home decor. "My husband only cares how much it costs," said one friend. If only, I thought. "It’s a power trip," said another friend. "Husbands don’t really care."
Sadly, I knew my husband really did care what that old cracked concrete patio looked like. To give him credit, the patio was his domain. It was home to the barbecue. As a transplanted Michigander, he had embraced California’s year-round outdoor living, and grilling.
But I cared what it looked like, too. I’m a California native. Doesn’t that mean I have an intuitive sense of how best to live and entertain outdoors? I read Sunset Magazine, fer cryin’ out loud. He reads Classic Car.
The patio juts out from the exterior wall of the kitchen. There is no direct door to the patio. The only access is through the screen porch that spans two-thirds of the back of the house, and to the left. The patio, about 15 x 15, is a moonscape of gray concrete and fault lines radiating out from a hole that once served as an umbrella stand. It is home not only Chris’s barbecue, but his smoker, a cart with a camper stove atop, and a second cart with a chopping block. A little too much clutter, perhaps? Oh, and that doesn’t even include the basketball hoop and bins of assorted baseballs and bats.
We didn’t want to spend real money. We still had the masterbath to do.
Function first, I said. But Chris kept talking about "dressing it up." What the heck did that mean? He suggested a picket fence to conceal the electrical box on the back of the house. Picket fence? That’s so country-style on our angular, unadorned house. The patio wars had begun.
He wanted to remove a short brick wall. I liked to hang towels on it. He wanted to stain the concrete. I wanted flagstone. He wanted to stain it terra cotta red. I wanted it slate blue.
On our wedding anniversary out to dinner, we fought about it. I fumed all the way home.
After that, I gave in. Quickly and simply. I decided the patio was not a focal point of the backyard _ it was a bit hidden on the side. I still had my screen porch, the center of our entertaining, just the way I liked it. If he wanted a red patio, he could have it. And somehow, miraculously really, things fell into place. He brought home a robust morning glory with big purple flowers and set it on the patio. I liked it. We needed another one to flank the kitchen window, I thought. I found two sleek ceramic urns on sale at Summerwinds Nursery. Chris put up some lattice on the house wall and wove in the blooming vine, making the space more intimate. I found a copper-topped cart with wheels and a fancy base to replace his rusting old cart. We moved a fountain from the wall of the shed to the patio wall.
Then we stood back. It was simple, functional, nice. We both liked it. At the moment, the morning glory is struggling with an aphid problem, and the kids still draw on the patio with chalk. But it suits us. It didn’t cost much. And Chris didn’t say I told you so.
That doesn’t mean I’m ready to take on the masterbath.—julia
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