Making a house a home

Having grown up on the western side of Haywood County, N.C., I had some preconceived notions of the eastern end of the county, not all of them positive. But for a young couple on a budget, my husband and I could not pass up the value and location of Canton. The original plan was to stay in our starter home for a few years while Patrick finished his master’s degree, then move some place more suitable. Little did I know how suitable Canton would be.

A keen interest in history made us much more receptive to buying our first mill house, which was built in 1913. We romanticized the nature of owning an almost 100-year-old home. And then reality struck. I still remember removing the vinyl floor in the bedroom to find another layer of vinyl, then linoleum, and finally plywood. We had a nail-pulling party for the plywood because one of the previous owners thought each plywood sheet needed a minimum of 50 nails in order to stay down on the floor. We used to muse about the previous owners—their tastes, their lives, and why they thought some repairs were a good idea.

With the birth of our son we outgrew our first mill town house. By that point however, we had fallen in love with our town. It never occurred to us to look elsewhere for our second home. We had the time to get past the “superficial” challenges, such as the mill (and its “smell of money”), and realize the amazing opportunity we had been given to live in a real working-class American town. We live lives that seem to rarely exist outside of a Norman Rockwell painting.

Our second home is a 1932 bungalow. It happens to be just one of many styles available on our street. If a bungalow does not suit one’s fancy, there are other options to choose from, including Colonial, Tudor, Mid-century Modern, and other styles. No one would ever accuse Canton’s neighborhoods of being full of cookie-cutter “McMansions.” Just as each house style is different, every family has placed a unique mark on its home. I wave at the neighbors and wonder who planted the gnarled apple trees in their side yard; admire the birdbath built into a stone wall; and ponder over paint swatches that might match the perfect shade of weathered grey from a house down the block.

Certainly new construction has its conveniences, but it will never have original French glass doors hiding in the corner of the basement waiting to be rehung in the dining room. It will never have the satisfaction of five layers of paint painstakingly removed from a brick fireplace (without harsh chemicals mind you). It will take many years of laughter, love, and work before one feels the warmth an older home has the moment one walks in the door. Most importantly, new homes rarely come with a whole community. Tales of previous owners and commiseration with other intrepid souls like our neighbors, the Fitzpatricks, who also are working on their mill town homes, have made for some lasting friendships and a sense of belonging. I would not have my home or town any other way.

— By Brianna Ganskopp Willis

I live across from Brianna. Though I cannot see it directly, I can always hear the mill and see the steam, and sometimes a very cabbagey aroma is indeed present. But the factory whistles have become a part my family life that I didn’t expect.

The first whistle blows at 7 a.m., which is when my two teenage daughters know they have to be downstairs having breakfast. I mark my lunch just like the mill workers do from noon to 12:30, and the final whistle at 3:30 means the kids should be home from school. The whole town hears the whistle’s sound, and it creates a kind of shared rhythm. The daily, human habit of work is always felt in Canton. I grew up in a wealthy tourist town, and I have to come to embrace the industrious pace of this little paper town.

My home is impressive in its size and strange in its layout. It is a brick bungalow built in 1918. I have run into several people in town who told me, “Oh yes, we looked at that place, but it seemed to be too much work.” I respond, “Oh, you were right.”

I think it’s been worth it though. The place was uninhabitable when we bought it. Eleven dogs can ruin the most impenetrable structures. The house even came with it’s own horror movie-worthy bathroom, with a rotting floor and porn and prescription bottles hidden in the ceiling. After 100 gallons of paint, refinished floors, new electrical, plumbing, heating, and a finished second floor, she looks pretty good.

This house is stout. Concrete and plaster on the walls make picture hanging tedious, but the transoms above all the doorways make up for it. Even though the front door looks directly down the hallway into the bathroom, the breakfast nook with its original table and benches is cozy. High ceilings make heating expensive, but I can sit on my front porch and watch my entire neighborhood pass by.

Brianna is right when in her comparison of life in Canton to something from a Norman Rockwell scene. My kids ride their bikes until dark, and I know everyone on my street. At the high school football games, the goalposts are set against the mill’s smokestacks and cargo trains. In the summer, I drop my kids off at the town pool, and I know they will probably go explore the Pigeon River too after they’ve fed the goats at the local feed and seed store.

However, my favorite part of living in Canton is its authenticity. This is not a polished place. In the winter, the empty storefronts seem gloomy. There’s a rummage sale going on in an empty parking lot somewhere seemingly seven days a week. The sidewalks that run in front of my house are crumbling. But when I return from more polished, formal places, I smile at the beacon of light as I pass the Hot Spot gas station just before I get into town. Canton is not a perfect place; sometimes it even feels like a ghost town. Except, Canton is gritty and real. That’s why I live here.

— By Amy Fitzpatrick