Building a Home by Mrs. L. D. Avery-Stuttle

Pacific Press Publishing Association · Mountain View, California · Feb 10, 1909

Building a Home

By Mrs. L. D. Avery-Stuttle

Windows.

It matters little how much money is expended in building a house, or how much pains is taken in its erection, it can never be a home in the truest sense of the word, unless there are plenty of windows, because it is sunlight which makes a room pleasant and cheerful, and which gives to it a certain air of comfort and coziness which it is impossible to gain without it.

And yet—strange, isn't it?—there are ever so many people who seem to think that the blessed light of the sun is the one important thing to be excluded. But who ever heard of a “cozy corner” without a window in it? or what would be thought of an architect who planned a building with no windows, or even one windowless room? Such a structure might be called a house, but assuredly it would not be a home. And homes are what we need. There are very many more houses in the world than there are homes.

Gloomy Homes.

But what good, pray, are the windows if they are kept closed and heavily curtained with thick, dark draperies and shades through which it is quite impossible for a suggestion of light or a stray sunbeam to flicker through?

Wait; I had forgotten. Did I say that the architect builds no windowless houses? Perhaps not entirely windowless, but I believe there are houses,—at least I have been told that there are,—very massive buildings of stone or brick, with only now and then tiny windows which are placed very high in the walls. These little windows are so arranged as to exclude as much light as possible from the miserable occupants. But there are no curtains to these windows. There are bars instead, and the rooms are called cells. I trust that the readers of these lines need no such punishment.

“Yes,” you say, “but it fades our carpets and our draperies and our costly couches. Of course, it is cozier and more cheerful with the shades raised, but the sunshine fades everything terribly!”

Not so, my sister; not everything. The sunlight does not fade the pale, hollow cheek of the consumptive; it is the shadows that do that. Neither is the plump, round cheek of childhood faded by its kindly kiss. The sunlight does not fade the rich and luscious cluster of grapes on yonder vine. It is the finger of light which tints the ruddy cheek of the peach and the pear and gives the wondrously rich hue to the cherry and the apple. No, my sister, there are some things, you see, which the sunlight doesn't fade.

As I write, the beams of the afternoon sun are falling across my desk. Outside the “chill December winds” are scurrying a few stray white flakes hither and thither, but the cheerful light of God’s great luminary brightens the whole room, and I say, “Thank God for the sunlight!”

The other day I called upon a neighbor, a frail little woman who looks as if her hold on life was very slight. She came to the door with her baby in her arms and welcomed me. But once inside, it was so very dark that I was almost unable to see at all. The only window in the room was a north one, and that was entirely darkened by a dense window-shade. Two or three straggling rays of dim light struggled for entrance under the very bottom of the curtain and flickered feebly across the window-sill. My first thought was to make my stay very short and endure the dungeonlike gloom in silence; but the gloom was so oppressive that I could not, and begged my friend to raise the shade. She seemed rather surprised than otherwise at my request, but I only wondered how she managed to live and work in the dark all day, or how either she or her sweet babe could ever develop the roses of health.

O better, a thousand times better, a faded carpet than faded cheeks; better faded draperies than lusterless eyes.

Then, if you are building a house, don't be chary of your windows. Dispense, if you must, with a few ornaments or a little grille work, yes, or even an extra room for a parlor, but if you value the health and happiness of your loved ones, arrange for plenty of sunlight.

Sunshine is the best disinfectant on earth, or one of the best; it is a foe to germs and filth and bacilli. It is to the housekeeper what the trained soldier is to the army.

Convenience.

In building a home, everything should be arranged as far as possible so that the housewife will not be obliged to climb stairs. If the work of the day can all be done on one floor, so much the better. I have read somewhere that it is quite exhilarating to ascend a flight of stairs, but in my own experience I have lamentably failed to prove the truth of this. Given even a short flight of stairs to climb several times a day, with the hands and arms filled with dishes and pails and what not, and you have one of the most complete woman-killers and disease-producers of which I know anything about, to say nothing of inconvenience and loss of time.

Let us learn to live simpler; to cultivate simpler tastes, not only in dressing and in eating and drinking, but in the furnishing and arrangement of our homes. Simplicity of living means longer and happier lives.