Shaken to the Core

This is the story of the house that Mike built.

In January 1994, I was seven months pregnant. With two daughters, ages 5 and 6, this was going to be our last child.

I am a nurse and have worked the overnight shift throughout our marriage; my husband, Mike, was “Mr. Mom.”

On top of the evening paperwork and calls he needed to make in his plastering business, Mike bathed and fed the girls and read them bedtime stories four nights a week.

Early in our marriage, we scrimped and saved to buy a small two-bedroom house in Van Nuys. Mike put a lot of work into the house and we sold it for a nice profit.

We moved up to a 2,500-square- foot house in Valencia. It wasn’t in the best shape, but it had a good layout and the neighborhood was terrific. Again, Mike put many hours of work into our house.

On Jan. 17, 1994, the Northridge earthquake destroyed our home. In an instant we were homeless.

Of all the houses on the street, ours was the only one condemned. And although we had earthquake insurance, the insurer offered only half of what it would cost to rebuild. There we were, without a home or enough money to repair ours.

For three weeks, we rented a motor home and lived in front of our broken and twisted house. Being almost nine months pregnant, I found that this arrangement got old quick. We searched for a house to rent while negotiating with the insurance company.

Meanwhile, Mike, with the tremendous demand for plasterers, was working 12-hour days.

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Finally, we found a vacant house that was listed for sale. We rented it and moved in. Soon after moving, we had a little girl.

Then, another crisis. The owners accepted an offer; we had three weeks to leave.

Devastated, we searched again for housing in a market saturated with displaced families. We found another house to rent and practically begged the owner to let us move in right away.

We continued haggling with the insurance company, going through several adjusters. Our first three were from out of state and had never dealt with real estate claims.

We finally decided a specialist was needed. The one we got claimed the house had not been built right.

In 1971, when our house was in the framing stages, it had been damaged by the Sylmar quake. The walls and roof shook so much that the framing started to pull apart, exposing nails and loosening many joints.

The developer never fixed the framing but just installed the drywall and stucco over the loose studs. So when the Northridge quake hit, the house fell apart.

Six months after the quake, our insurer was still offering only half of the money needed to rebuild. After much agonizing, we decided to take it. Mike would rebuild the house himself.

This was a difficult decision for us because it was a very lucrative time for craftsmen in the building industry, and we would be sacrificing Mike’s income. Nevertheless, he quit his business and started work on the house, vowing to make something good out of a bad situation.

Mike is not a designer or an architect, but he’s very artistic. We decided on a Santa Fe-Southwestern style because he is a good plasterer and felt he could use his creativity.

He drew pictures of what the rooms were going to look like when they were finished and then built from the pictures.

For eight months, Mike worked seven days a week. Many days he worked 12 hours, and then came home and took care of the kids so that I could go to work. Other days he worked 16 to 18 hours.

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Sometimes he fell asleep with a hammer in his hand, woke up the next day and continued where he left off.

I wanted Corian counter tops in the kitchen, which would have cost at least $6,000--impossible on our budget. So Mike designed and built beautiful counter tops of white swimming pool cement coated with a clear resin for $300 in materials.

Finding some old logs at a discount, Mike built handrails to give the stairway a real Southwestern look. He formed a Santa Fe-style plaster fireplace using the broken and chipped bricks of the old fireplace.

Mike worked himself so hard that the skin peeled off both his hands. He knew we were running out of money and he needed to get back to a paying job.

Finally, a year and a half after the quake, we moved back in, even though much of the upstairs was still not finished. Mike and I camped out in the den until it was done.

Mike works for another contractor now. I know it’s hard for him not to be on his own, but I know we made the right decision.

Everyone who sees our beautiful house marvels at what one man can do with imagination, courage and simple building materials.

My husband’s sacrifices, artistry and craftsmanship are everywhere in our home--the house that Mike built.

Donna Mason is a pediatric registered nurse at UCLA.

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