What really makes a home

It's 4 p.m. on a gloomy Tuesday afternoon, and I'm sitting in the dentist's office, waiting to have a crown installed over a broken molar. I'm pretty relaxed this dental practice is known for its gentle manner and I'm soon drawn in to the real estate reality show on the flat screen television on the opposite wall.

A Hollywood-beautiful young couple is touring a new-looking mansion. As they wander, guided by an agent, through spacious, beautifully appointed rooms, their lips curl. They roll their eyes and make little snorts of derision as they turn up their noses at the former owner's choice of wall color and carpet style.

They talk about tearing down walls and installing a kitchen island much larger and fancier than the one now in place. Solid oak cabinets are deemed ugly, and the washer and dryer need a bigger room.

The children must have their own rooms, of course, each with its own bathroom. They'll also need a luxurious master bedroom, a fully equipped gym, an in-home office, and a lush backyard big enough for an Olympic-size swimming pool and a state-of-the-art barbecue pit.

The mansion, which the young couple apparently view as a fixer-upper, is priced at about $800,000. The desperately needed renovations come to another $250,000.

I shake my head. My dentist, standing next to me, crown in hand, chuckles as she recalls the modest first home she and her husband bought when they were about the same age as the pretentious couple on the program.

After my dental work is finished, I head home to my rambling farmhouse, built in 1910. I drive up the rocky, rutted dirt lane and walk the gravel path under three spruce trees, planted when our wood-frame home was built. I notice the cracks in the concrete porch, and the worn edges of the original wooden front door. As I step inside, the wooden floor planks creak, and I see the chimney's plaster is rough and needs a coat of paint.

The 15-by-20-foot parlor, with its 10-foot ceiling, would never pass muster for the young couple I saw on television. It would be too old, too small, too imperfect. The rest of the house the dining room, guest room, library, bedroom and cat room would have to be gutted and completely redone.

The kitchen, a tiny room that was once the pantry and the back porch, would make the young couple run for the hills.

I smile. Our home may not be fancy. It may not be new. It may not be a mansion. But it is filled with love and family and books and very old furniture. It's comfortable and cozy. It's paid for.

I wonder about that young couple, and where they will be when they are in their 60s. Will they have the security of a paid-for home, one that resonates with the memories of a lifetime? Will they remain so focused on their desire for flawless and shiny-new that they lose sight of the lovely patina of well-worn and imperfect? Will their grown children come home to settle in on the same wing chair and read their now-shabby childhood books to their own children?

I wish the young couple the best. They will learn soon enough that their high-paying jobs can be lost, that loved ones can fall to devastating illnesses, that life is flawed, imperfect and hard. They will learn that it's love, not designer kitchens, that makes a home.