Just Turn the Spigot and Poof, the Magic of Water

 By Bill Primavera

The Home Guru

Don’t think that I’m really weird, but one of my favorite movies is Disney’s Enchanted where an animated fairy tale princess finds herself banished to real-life Manhattan, and one of her first discoveries of modern life is the magical waterfall when she turns on a spigot in the shower. Where does the water come from, she asks her host?  From the pipes, she is told. But where do the pipes get it, she then asks?

When you turn on that spigot in your kitchen or bathroom without a thought as to where the pipes get it, you can know that the water you enjoy represents centuries of sophisticated engineering from the time of the Egyptians and Romans.  The latter civilization developed the first underground aqueduct in 312 BC which created the fundamental design for the construction of our own Croton Aqueduct, completed in 1842 and stretching 40 miles from the Croton River Dam to New York City. The enormity of the project made it the greatest engineering feat to that time in this country. 

Since then, our municipal water system has expanded with a New Croton Aqueduct, built in 1890, the Catskills Aqueduct in 1910, from which most of Westchester gets its supply now, and the Delaware Aqueduct in 1928, which is constructed on the other side of the Hudson.

Thanks to well-protected wilderness watersheds, New York's water treatment process is simpler than in other American cities. One advantage of our system is that 95 percent of our water supply is delivered by gravity. The other five percent needs to be pumped to maintain pressure. More than 90 percent of homes in Westchester enjoy municipal water, while Putnam still depends mostly on well water due in part to its typography and the more rural nature of most of its communities.

Along with some house hunters’ demands for sewer, many demand municipal water in their searches as well.

To trace the journey of our great-tasting water from its source to our spigots, I checked with my local expert, David Rambo, who serves as Water Distribution Superintendant of Yorktown. “The system built in 1842 was an amazing feat of backbreaking work,” said Rambo.  “The machines then were not the machines of today which are like giant drills that can create tunnels in rock.”

The odyssey of water originates with the streams, riverlets and lakes in the Croton watershed, the Catskills or in the Delaware system, where water collects into the 19 reservoirs in the New York City system.  From the reservoirs, water travels via the aqueducts and through our communities in mains that are as large as 17 feet in diameter.

From the main, water is siphoned off by our local water departments (“and we are charged quite a bit for that privilege,” says Rambo) and delivered to a local treatment plant in pipes that are 24 inches in diameter.   Some treatment plants are shared by several towns.

At the plant, the water is filtered through a two-part process, which includes a 24-inch sand filter, and certain protective elements are added to it. These include:  chlorine to kill organisms, fluoride to prevent tooth decay, sodium hydroxide, to raise the pH level, and orthophosphate, a substance that coats pipes and keeps them from leaching lead into the drinking water.

Once treated, the water is sent on its way via pumps through pipes 12 to 16 inches in diameter to a water tower, usually 40 to 50 feet high and placed on a higher elevation. It is the release of water from these towers in pipes also 12 to 16 inches in diameter, and then in smaller and smaller pipes, which builds the pressure, until it arrives from the street into our homes in a  ¾ inch pipe.  There, it passes a meter that registers the home’s consumption. Currently the meters are read individually but Rambo is suggesting to our town that the old meters be replaced with automatic reading technology.  As it is now, I know my meter is read regularly because I received a call soon after I filled my pool and was asked if my system should be checked for a leak. From the meter the water travels to the spigots in our bathrooms and kitchens, our toilets, shower and tubs.

Putnam County operates somewhat differently for its lesser requirements for municipal water, with its own series of reservoirs that comprise the Croton watershed. Towns like Brewster and Southeast, for instance, take their water from their own reservoirs.

Today, only Ossining gets its water from the Old and New Croton Aqueducts which supply only 10 percent of New York City’s water today.

According to Rambo, the water has a strict daily testing schedule, which obviously, bottled water does not, and it enjoys a great reputation for taste. In my alter-ego professional pursuits, I sometimes dine or host tastings with food and restaurant critics and while hosting a tasting some years ago for the inimitable food/restaurant critic Gael Greene, I was delighted when she declined bottled water in favor of “plain old ‘NYC’ water. It’s the best!”

As I finish this piece, fearing more water than I want from the Hurricane Irene, I’ll enjoy  a great tasting glass of water directly from the tap, followed by a nice hot shower in soft water with great pressure, not even thinking twice about where the pipes get it.

Bill Primavera is a licensed Realtor® (www.PrimaveraHomes.com), affiliated with Coldwell Banker, and a marketing practitioner (www.PrimaveraPR.com). For questions or comments about the housing market, or selling or buying a home, he can be reached directly at 914-522-2076.

 Why the Front Porch Disappeared 

By Bill Primavera

The Home Guru

When I moved into my historic home, I found four square-shaped columns in the basement, a sure sign that there had been a front porch on the house at some distant time.

Shortly after moving in, a woman in her late 80s stopped by unannounced and introduced herself as a descendant of Dr. Ebenezer White whose family and descendants occupied my farmhouse from the 1770s until the mid-1940s. She brought with her many photographs of the house from the turn of the last century and, sure enough, they showed a large front porch featuring the very columns I found in my basement.

Further research suggested that the porch was removed sometime following World War II, and perhaps the owner at that time decided to save the columns just in case he wanted to build another porch someday. But that never happened.

Once a staple of American residential architecture, the front porch has all but disappeared in house plans today. When we in the real estate business see an occasional listing that promotes itself as a "front porch colonial," we’re actually surprised. I suspect that most of us have a nostalgic feeling about this architectural feature that would denote socialization among family members and friends, but for the most part, the concept has had its day.

For most of us, that is.

My friend and fellow realtor Carol Christiansen recently told me that her husband, a contractor, is currently adding a front porch to their home. "I grew up in Astoria, Queens and, while I didn’t have a front porch, our stoop was our gathering place for family and neighbors in the hot summer evenings," she said. "Sometimes the dads would be playing cards on folding card tables, and the moms would have homemade lemonade and cookies for the kids. As I grew up, I always wanted my own home to have a front porch where my friends and family could gather, just like in the movies."

Carol’s dream was not to be realized, however, for a long time. "My first three homes – a raised ranch, a contemporary, then a colonial – all lacked a front porch," she said. My husband and I later rented an old haunted Victorian with a front porch and I loved it, but I didn’t own it. After that, we bought a cottage which my husband is now expanding and the most important addition will be my front porch, at last," she said. "This is where I’ll read, meditate, see my neighbors and just watch the cars drive by. How many people get to have a childhood dream come true?"

The front porch has a long history. In his informal but detailed book, "The Front Porch and Its Architectural Career" (Lyons Press, 2002), Michael Dolan traces its origins to many sources, from the ancient Greeks and Romans, to bungalow appendages used in India, from which the British borrowed the concept. With further influence of a pre-colonial African house front that became popular in the Carribean, the English introduced the concept to America, starting in the south where the climate demanded an outside living space with cross-breezes.

The reason that the porch proliferated in the mid 1800s was because of industrialization and social influences that created a considerable leisure class, free from the drudgery of having to tend to endless daily chores. With this new leisure came the necessity for an area to enjoy more free time, and the front porch was an obvious place.

But for every movement, there is a counter movement and the rise of technology was met with a new interest in nature and the American landscape, as seen in our own Hudson River School of painting. And by the 1840s and 1850s, the works of Emerson and Thoreau would provide an idealized vision of nature, offering an escape from the industrialization of the cities. Socially, nature and our nation’s landscape were taking on new importance in our consciousness in the countryside, and cities soon followed suit by creating parks, Central Park the most notable among them.

By the end of the 19th century, the porch was ubilquitous and could be found in the most remote areas as well as closely-knit neighborhoods in cities and spaced out plots in the suburbs.

But right after World War II, the porch started its fall from grace with the advent of air conditioning, automobiles and a change in social patterns. The porch lost its social function as Americans chose to stay indoors or on a back patio or deck which would afford more privacy. And, of course, the computer with its games and social media dealt the final death blow. In effect, today, Facebook is everyone’s front porch.

Dolan notes that front porches built now are more a nostalgic throwback to another time, but people rarely actually populate them anymore. They are built to suggest what people would do if they had the time to do it, he notes. I have the feeling, however, that my friend Carol will be the exception.

Bill Primavera is a licensed Realtor® (www.PrimaveraHomes.com), affiliated with Coldwell Banker, and a marketing practitioner (www.PrimaveraPR.com). For questions or comments about the housing market, or selling or buying a home, he can be reached directly at 914-522-2076.

In her memoir, "Eat, Pray, Love," author Elizabeth Gilbert (and actress Julia Roberts in the movie) travels the world to find spiritual fulfillment, but most of us probably conduct our quiet time for meditation or prayer right at home. We all know the designated places to eat and to make love (although I do sometimes eat in the bedroom and hear that some people make love in the kitchen), but where do we meditate or pray?

While enjoying a wine tasting one evening with some realtor buddies, the subject came up, and we were all quite open, even enthusiastic, about how and where we "go within."

"I prefer doing it outside, observing nature," Carol Christiansen said, "and I do it with my eyes open," she added, which surprised me. While Buddha was able to meditate outside under a tree, I lack that capability, finding outdoor sounds and even the breeze distracting.

"I can focus anyplace and anywhere I happen to be in my home," Elisa Bruno-Midilli said. That talent also eludes me. Walter Sadowski said he meditates in his office, just taking a few moments when the need arises. That is something I did years ago when I worked a 9 to 5 job in the most dysfunctional office environment imaginable. I would sometimes retreat to the men’s room, perhaps two or three times a day, go into a stall and repeat the mantra, "relax, relax, relax." This survival technique was abandoned after my boss asked me if I were having some kind of gastro-intestinal problem.

At home, I suspect that many of us have our own special place dedicated to making contact with our inner selves and the universe. I was reminded of this a while back when I was told of a complaint from a seller who said that an agent left her business card on the homeowner’s "altar," which would seem to be a violation of sacred space, and understandable. The agent, in her own defense, said, "Gee, it looked like a regular sideboard to me."

At the height of my spiritual quest some years ago, I explored an endless and seemingly discordant mix of meditative practices. These included listening to new age and gospel music, the sound of an indoor waterfall, and a vibrating chime, all supported with the energies of crystal healing, a very heavy dose of Vipassana meditation and attendance at a then-popular men’s group.

It would have been impossible to engage in such an elaborate other-worldly plan either outdoors or in a public place. So I carved out a space, actually an entire room, as my personal meditation room. I figured that it could double as a second guest room. Then, I started collecting crystals (minerals I called them to the outside world), and I became so obsessive about it, not so much for their metaphysical qualities, but for their sheer physical beauty, that at one point my quiet place looked like an outpost of The Museum of Natural History.

Our first house guest invited to sleep in that room refused. It seems that she had taken a different path to spirituality than I had, one that would classify any association with crystals as witchcraft. To each his or her own, I say.

Today my meditation room, pared of most of its crystals, has certain features that I would recommend for others who want to carve out their own quiet spaces. And the formula can be quite simple. Whether an entire room or a corner of one, the space should be uncluttered and capable of being darkened even in the morning or middle of the day. There should be a system for producing sound, and I recommend that it be through earphones rather than ambient sound for better concentration. Also, depending on one’s beliefs, there might be religious or spiritual symbols or a touchstone of some sort to set the mood.

Some can meditate on a floor mat, but some of us are not that agile, so there should be a chair that is comfortable but not too comfortable, or there is the risk of falling asleep while meditating. What serves as my launching pad as my mind jettisons into altered time is an old wing back chair that has seen better days. I know I should replace it, but what if the back of a new chair didn’t conform just the right way to my own back, and what if the height of the seat was not perfect for me? This chair and I have spent a lot of altered time together to the point where it’s become symbolic of my spiritual growth. So how could I let it go?

The one finishing touch might be some kind of signage for the entrance to the space that reads: "Altered state of consciousness within. Please do not enter." Then, just say "ommmmmmm."

by Bill Primavera

The Home Guru

My favorite room is really not a traditional room at all. It’s a space that measures only 8 ft. x 9 ft., but inch for inch, it’s the most practical multi-use location in my house. It’s my mudroom.

What the decompression chamber is to astronauts and what the hyperbaric chamber is to deep sea divers, so the mudroom is to homeowners. It’s that in-between area that allows one to transition with impunity from one environment that may be dusty, dirty, muddy, or wet, into a cleaner space.

At least that is the purpose it served when we were an agrarian society and kicked off boots muddied from a day in the fields before entering the main house.

Mostly as a lean-to shed or an enclosed porch attached to the back of the house, mudrooms were popular from the 18^{th century to the 1920s. But as our society shifted from farming to other less physical endeavors, mudrooms were banished in back to give way to the foyer in front.}

But in the 1950s, perhaps because Americans started to collect more "stuff" in a more prosperous time following World War II, the mudroom regained popularity, adding storage space to the function of housing coats and shoes. And in the 1970s, it morphed into a combo storage/laundry room when homeowners demanded that washers and dryers make their way up from the basement. But eventually designers questioned the wisdom of combining a place for shedding dirt with laundering, and washers and dryers made their way up to the more convenient second story bedroom level.

Today the mudroom serves many individualized needs of the homeowner and most times is now incorporated into the footprint of the house, taking space from the kitchen and most often situated as an entry from an attached garage. I’ve listed homes where the mudroom has featured a pantry as an extension to the kitchen, an office, a hobby center, a sports equipment storage facility, a potting room for the garden and a changing room for the pool, the latter of which is the case with my mudroom.

When I found my home, it featured a motley mudroom that had been tacked on to the back of the house sometime after 1860. All but abandoned in terms of maintenance, it was just a loosely framed lean-to with a cracked cement floor, and the ceiling was just the raw rafters of the roof, overlaid with wood shingles. There was no insulation and only wood shelves on one wall suggesting that the structure may have doubled as a potting shed.

Because it was the direct access from our driveway to the kitchen, it was hardly an attractive entrance to the house

In my boldest construction project before or since, I chipped away the broken cement and hand-poured a new concrete foundation from a number of mixings in my wheelbarrow. I insulated the walls and created a nice closet and space for a half-bath. Other than the installation of the bathroom fixtures and a new windowed door that replaced one with decaying solid wood, I did all the work myself. And, now, as a semi-retired fixer-upper, my work from long ago gives me a great sense of satisfaction every time I enter or leave the house.

When designing a mudroom and selecting its finishes, it’s well to remember that there’s a reason that the word "mud" lingers in its name. Materials for flooring should therefore be durable, easy to clean and water resistant. This is not the space for wall to wall carpeting, but tile, vinyl, natural slate or porcelain tile are excellent flooring choices.

Wall treatments also should not be delicate, but might be a solid vinyl which can be scrubbed without damage, or paneling that will be more forgiving when visitor lean against the wall to remove their soiled shoes or boots.

One design trick is to use the same cabinetry in the mudroom as used in the kitchen which gives the impression that both rooms are bigger than they actually are.

Many times mudrooms don’t have windows, although it’s ideal if they do. If not, overhead lighting is preferred, rather than wall fixtures that protrude into cramped space or standing lamps that could interfere with cleaning the floor.

A modern mudroom might best include closed storage areas and a large closet organized in a way to separate clothing and equipment for the outside. Lacking a closet, the mudroom can accommodate an armoire for storage purposes.

Considering how many uses the mudroom has today, perhaps it deserves an upgrade in title to the "all-purpose" room.