Chapter 7

We asked at the front desk and were referred to a breakfast place that served ‘the best waffles in the west.’ At least that was their claim, and who was I to nay-say them? Regardless, we enjoyed our breakfast. We returned to the hotel, spending several hours in the comfortable chairs in their lobby with the new Surface Pros we had gotten. I ended up researching Mt. Rushmore and finding out what it had in common with the Lincoln Memorial (nothing, except that Borglund named his son Lincoln), while Dad was catching up on the dissolution of his construction company and its assets. The advantage of the lobby was that we could enjoy the green lady’s coffee offerings from the location just down the street instead of drinking the abomination they provided in the rooms.

I had filled up on facts, but Dad was still immersed in emails from his attorney. So, I took the Tahoe out to have it washed and fueled. That took only a little while, I was back in time to take a nice leisurely nap in the room – post housekeeping. It was nice to have some time apart from my parent – I’m sure he felt the same way about me. We each took care of our dining needs separately, meeting up again only shortly before retiring for the night. It was a welcomed change.

The next morning we got an early start, since we wanted to make the five and a half hour trip to our reserved camp at Grizzly Creek Primitive campground while we were fresh. We expected to make several pit stops along the way, finally doing our shopping for camping supplies in Rapid City. That worked out pretty well for us, leaving enough time to get to our camp site, set up our gear and cook a decent meal before spending a lazy June evening in front of our fire.

The following day we saw the mountain, splitting our time between the actual vista and the National Park exhibits. I have to say that it was impressive, but it told a tale of manifest destiny and a fledgling nation’s domination of the indigenous peoples. My research had discovered that there was another mountain carving taking place less than thirty minutes away. We drove down to check out the Crazy Horse Memorial, which was much more sparsely attended. I came away from that day with two different views of my country, not entirely sure how to feel. Dad noticed, telling me to always remember that there’s more than one side to any story.

That day set the tone for the next month. We would pack up, drive somewhere, set up camp, fish, see the sights, laze around until we were bored with the location and then move on. When we needed to, we’d get a hotel room, some with kitchenettes, some not, Skype with Grandma and Grandpa Edwards, Uncle Frank and Aunt June, catch up on Dad’s business, learn to cook and clean up. When we tired of civilization, we’d move on again.

We spent a lot of time in Minnesota, what with all of the lakes and wilderness available to fish and play in, and we did something Dad had always wanted to do. Minneapolis had a pretty good collection of Frank Lloyd Wright houses and structures. While most of them are privately owned and unavailable for viewing, there are pictures of all, and much has been written about them. I read the biography of Frank that Dad had enjoyed during our first few weeks this summer. That got me interested in his style as well. Having spent the better part of two years now helping Dad build his own designs, I began to see the influence that Wright’s philosophy had played on Dad’s drawings.

The differences I could see between the two of them, was that where Wright would often view the building as inspired by nature, like the falling water design, Dad saw them more as co-existing with nature. That is to say that Dad would view a property and then imagine how a house would fit in, eventually designing and building a home with fully modern features and amenities that when completed, looked essentially ‘right’ in its environment. The fact that he tended to build upscale mansions with worth well into the millions hadn’t hurt his business either.

We stayed for a week in the Twin Cities, spending the morning in the hotel’s business center, printing out the floor plans and other pertinent information on the house we planned to see that day. Since I had learned to read architectural drawings, we would take some of them to a coffee shop outside the Minneapolis Institute of Art, along with our Surface tablets. Bringing up pictures of each house’s environment on the tablets, we’d see how Wright had worked to find inspiration from the location. We’d argue whether a certain feature would have been better changed and how, and discuss the airflow features of the floor plans.

The second day we sat there arguing about one of the local houses, we were interrupted by an older gentleman. “I’m sorry to intrude, but your subject matter interests me greatly, and I wondered if you’d have the time to speak with me.”

Dad, always willing to make a new friend, invited the gentleman to sit with us. Introductions were made.

“I’m James and this is my son Tim.”

We learned that he was Professor Gregory Litton, AIA, LEED, AP, BD+C. Dad had all the same letters following his name, as the professor would come to find out.

It seemed that the good professor was teaching a summer class on Introduction to Design, which was why he was seated outside the Institute of Art, waiting for his students to join him. They were going in to look at the hallways of the Wright designed Little House which had been installed in one of the galleries there. For the professor, an advantage of the museum was that they also had an exhibit on American furniture, from styles around the time of the Revolutionary War to Eames Bakelite pieces.

The professor wanted to get back to the discussion of Wright’s designs that had beckoned him to approach us. “So how would you have changed the exterior of the S.P. Elam house?” That was the home we planned to drive by today.

Dad got a strange expression. “I wouldn’t. It has a style to it that is pure Wright. But you really asked the wrong question, Sir. You should have asked what it would look like if I were to design a home for that location.”

While we had been talking, several of the professor’s students had entered the coffee house and made their way to the darkened corner where we were sitting. It was getting crowded, and the light was poor where we were so Professor Litton asked if it would be acceptable to move to an outdoor location. We had finished with our coffee and allowed that we could be persuaded to change venues. There was green space in front of the institute. The professor suggested that since we were only waiting for one or two more people, we could leave a volunteer here to direct them while we all trooped over to the museum.

That’s what we did. I could tell Dad was nervous to be back in an academic setting, but he was on solid ground, discussing the one thing that he did, in my opinion, better than just about anyone: design to fit the environment. The professor grouped his students around, asking them to sit on the grass with himself and Dad at their focal point. We had just gotten settled in when the last three students and what looked to be a future Miss America came strolling up following the volunteer we had left behind. I was content to remain in the background of the semi-circle and had taken a position behind the class. Miss America joined me.

“Hi, I’m Amber,” she told me in hushed tones, reaching for and grasping my hand.

“Tim,” I replied, shaking her hand with a minimum of movement to keep from distracting anyone.

“I haven’t seen you in this class before, and I thought I knew everyone in the architectural program.” Her smile was genuine.

I shook my head and gestured toward the professor, “I’m just here today with the visiting speaker.”

She nodded, turning her attention to what the professor was saying.

“I happened upon something unusual this morning as I was waiting for our class to gather. This gentleman beside me and his son,” Professor Litton pointed to the back, “were discussing the floor plan and elevation of the S.P. Elam house. What was interesting was not that they were admiring it, no, they had printed plans and sketches, and were critiquing it from an environmental design standpoint. Their discussion was one that my graduate students would have been hard pressed to equal.”

He took a breath, “What was even more remarkable was the response I received to a question I’ve asked in my class many times – ‘How would you have changed the exterior of the S.P. Elam house?’ I was told that I had asked the wrong question, that the house was fine in the Wright style. Instead, I should have asked what a house designed by this gentleman would have looked like in that location.”

The class looked interestedly at their teacher. I wondered if they had ever thought to challenge his authority before, like Dad had done.

“So I’ll ask that question now of a practicing architect, and before he answers, I’ll have him introduce himself and his qualifications. I’m taking a risk here, but from what I heard in the coffee house, I think it’s justified, and I hope that James will allow us to peer into his thought processes so we can see design from his perspective. James?”

Dad moved more into the students’ focus, and in a voice that could be pitched to cut across a working construction site began, “My name is James McKenzie, AIA, LEED, AP, BD+C, and until a month ago, I had my own company – McKenzie Construction – designing and building homes in the Pacific Northwest.” I saw the professor’s head give a little jerk of surprise before a smile spread broadly across his face. He pulled a laptop from his shoulder bag and booted it up while Dad was talking.

“With me today is my son Tim. We’re on a summer-long vacation that so far has consisted mostly of camping and fishing our way through National Parks. It’s now early July and we’ve only gotten this far.” He got a laugh from the students. “I earned a bachelors in architecture from the University of Washington, oh, about 23 years ago, which would make me twice your age, if you were wondering.”

Dad took a few minutes to explain how he had worked for a larger Architectural firm just out of college while he took his exams. After passing them and being certified, he started his own company, making enough of a name for himself and profit to be able to marry and build a house for his family in the suburbs of Seattle within three years of his start.

“One of the things I do is to look at a location, an elevation, talk to a client to gauge their desires, or when building a house on spec, simply envision a home that would fit the environs. So when Professor Litton asked me how I would change a perfectly good Wright design, that to me was the wrong question.” Dad paused for a minute and motioned for me to come to the front where he asked me to get the easel and sketch paper from the Tahoe and bring it back. He had planned to make some preliminary sketches when we went to see the house this afternoon, and we were already packed and prepared.

When I returned five minutes later, he was just finishing up on his philosophy of environmental design. I set up the easel behind him, clipping the paper to it so it wouldn’t get blown away.

“Now, this is the site elevation of the Elam house.” He laid it out in a few quick broad strokes, matching it remarkably to the pictures we had been studying. “If I were to build here, this is what I would envision.” He penciled in an exterior that looked unlike any of the houses I had worked on, but which retained his style and sense of fit. It matched the natural environment in a way I hadn’t seen him work before.

The professor looked puzzled. “That doesn’t look like any of your other work,” he blurted.

Dad glanced a question at him – Litton held up his laptop. “I took some time while you were lecturing to go to your company website and pull up pictures of the houses you’ve built,” he confessed.

Dad nodded, realizing that there must be Wi-Fi available out on the lawn where we were holding this impromptu class. “Tim, come up here and use my tablet to get Google Street View of the neighborhood.”

On the way up to the front, it clicked for me; I knew why the sketch looked like it did. I pulled up the street view and showed the students the other houses in the neighborhood. The Wright designed house fit the physical location, but not the neighborhood. Dad’s house fit both.

He continued, “With most of the houses I’ve designed and built, I’ve had the luxury of only having to match it to its environment from a natural perspective. The reason this one looks different from my prior art is that it also needed to fit in with the neighbors’ homes.” He looked out at the class, “Some of you will go on to be architects who design tract houses. There’s nothing wrong with that. But each developer will want houses in a certain style that they can use to build homogeneous neighborhoods. Remember this lesson. Perhaps you’ll be drawing a custom home in an established neighborhood and need to make it fit. Remember this lesson.”

He flipped the page on the easel so he had a fresh sheet. He was about to draw a different view of the same location when Professor Litton stopped him. There was a brief discussion around the laptop. Dad gave a grimace then nodded and turned away from the easel.

“Your professor plays dirty. I was going to give a second alternate for the elevation here when he asked me to use one of my own locations.”

“Tim, log onto our website and pull up pictures of that last spec house we built before we started any of the surveying,” he requested.

I did as he asked, and brought the tablet up front so the group of students could see it.

“This is the plot of land I purchased so I could build a house on spec. The access road hadn’t been cut yet, and we were limited by terrain as to where we could put it. Show them the next set of pictures, Tim.”

The students all huddled in close to see the reveal. I pulled up shots of the bulldozers working to cut a driveway into the hillside, letting each shot linger long enough so that everyone could see.

“As I said, we were limited by terrain and this was the only place that the drive could have gone, in terms of practicality. But that still leaves us with a blank canvas in terms of the home. Your professor asked me if I would have done some things differently, and I can tell you, I already did. The house that we built wasn’t the one I initially envisioned or drew. Tim there, has been working on crews with me for years, and he came across the drawings and pictures on a photo board in my study at home. He started asking me, why not put this room here, and angle the exterior like that? I liked many of his suggestions, and ended up incorporating them into the final version of the house.”

Professor Litton stepped forward and spoke quietly with Dad for a moment. There was a shrug in response. “I was just asked if I would feel comfortable with giving some specifics on the house. I don’t have a problem with that. From start to finish, keeping in mind that I’m not counting the time to select the property, we spent three weeks in site prep and permits, and three and a half months designing and building the property you see in the finished picture.”

I fast forwarded past all the construction photos until I found one that showed it finished, ready to be listed.

“The house sold a few weeks ago for $2.1 million, and we only had $1.5 million invested in the property, materials and construction crews.”

The professor stepped forward, “And that is part of the intangible of design. There is an intrinsic worth to good design, and it turns out that one can put a monetary value on it, too.” He looked around at his group, “I asked for one more thing, and I hope that Mr. McKenzie will indulge us. Using that blank slate,” he pointed to the easel, “I asked him to give us three drawings if he could, of houses fitting that same location without regard for any physical constraints.”

Dad nodded, turning back to his drawing board. He explained as he sketched, “I initially had this design in mind, but had to reject it when circumstances beyond our control required it.” A beautiful chalet-inspired building came to life in front of our eyes. He spent a couple of minutes drawing in broad strokes before tearing that page off and handing it to Litton.

“Then I thought about a modern flat-roofed home, which is a fantasy due to the requirements to design for snow-loading.” That house came to life, fitting no less well into the landscape than had the first. It took five minutes for that sketch to be completed, along with an inset of the floor plan. That page too was torn from the easel.

“Finally, I want to incorporate elements in this sketch of the house my wife and I always dreamed of building when Tim got old enough to participate. That would have been last year, except for extenuating circumstances.” Dad turned again to the easel, hiding his eyes from the group watching him. What the charcoal strokes revealed was a home that was the most beautiful I had ever seen. This was Dad’s heart and soul laid bare to the world. There were curves present where the landscape required them, and straight lines reminiscent of the cedars drawn in the background. The roof line tripped, falling and angling until it was a peak complimentary to the mountain behind it. He included inset plans for each floor of the split level.

He stepped back from it when he finished, still hiding his face. When he had control of himself, he started to tear the sketch from the pad, looking at me where I had moved to the back of the group. I shook my head – no. That one was ours alone. His hand instead flipped it over, leaving his audience bereft.

We had been on the front lawn of the museum for almost an hour now, and had drawn a crowd significantly larger than the ten or fifteen we had started with. Professor Litton stepped up once more.

“I want to thank James and Tim McKenzie for their time today and for the wonderful practical demonstration of architectural and environmental design.” There was applause from the group. “I would ask them to stick around and provide that guest lecture again in the fall, but they’re on vacation, and we’ve taken enough of their time.” He led the applause this time, and it was clear to the larger group that had gathered to watch that whatever this had been was now over. He had one last thing to say.

“I think it’s pretty clear that we won’t be heading into the museum as initially planned. Before I dismiss you today, I’d like to invite you to join me and the McKenzies,” his eyes pleaded with Dad, obviously this wasn’t planned, “at The Copper Hen for lunch. Unfortunately, I will only be paying for them, but you’re welcome to join us ... if they agree.”