The days were idyllic - swimming in the river, making tents with sheets and blankets under the bamboo-framed table in the summer dining room, learning how to be a 'handyman' alongside my McGiver-like grandpa, mowing the large front lawn, and making model planes when the weather was inclement. On the weekends, my aunt would visit; and she let me tag along, as she and her boyfriend would spend their days on the nearby beach with their friends.
The house was situated on a knoll above the river, in what was probably part of the natural forest many years ago. This circumstance was instrumental to a particularly strong memory. When rain was falling at my bedtime, I would occasionally be given a special treat. Bedclothes would be brought out, for me to spend the night sleeping on the screened porch. Grandma would tuck me in on one of the padded loungers, and kiss me good night.
By the time it was completely dark, I was engulfed by all sorts of sensory treats. At various times through the night and into the morning, owls would hoot, whippoorwills would call, and crickets would chirp. The rain would make that unforgettable sound, as is hit the timber roof over my head and fluttered through the foliage just a few feet away. When the temperature fell, I could feel the chill of the mist condensing on the surfaces of my makeshift bed. The pleasant combination of being exposed to all the sound and effects of nature, while being totally protected against any discomfort was quite special.
What does all this have to do with the typical themes of this blog? In my mind, it has to do with what makes for good architecture. Yes, really.
To this day, those childhood experiences are benchmarks about how to configure and use the buildings and spaces we create. When we do our job well, we absolutely feel with all our senses what we have done. It should be both stimulating and calming. A trite, overused, and typically meaningless phase about the built environment is that it has a 'sense of place'. If such a thing can be true, I would suggest my grandparents' porch might have it. For me, the memory triggers a feeling - so vivid and notable that I could sketch the plan of the house, and its setting.
Now that's visceral.
