URBAN JEWEL

THROW THE WORDS "fixer-upper" into a conversation, sit back and watch the definitions fly.

Chances are, the general translation will run something like this: a few coats of paint, new nails in the deck, a sprucing up of the interior . For others, the phrase translates to more serious stuff: new roof, kitchen, bath, hardwood floors and electrical system.

What it probably won't mean to most is a complete house reclamation, the extensive retrieval of the original architectural intent - in other words, dealing with tons of trash, miles of mice-dropping-infested insulation, two moldy bathrooms and serious gaps in the flooring.

Add to the necessities re-insulation, new Sheetrock, a new fireplace and new bathroom, moving a few walls, fitting in extra windows, rebuilding a stairway and - well, you've got some project.

Extreme it is, but that is the fixer-upper scenario Brett Snow and Jennifer Beedon chose to take on. For eight mostly rain-soaked months, they battled in the muddy trenches to rescue a 1980s architect-designed (but never completed) Montlake split-level from an uncertain fate. The place was so bad that realty agents, according to the couple's realtor, referred to it as the "recluse cabin."

In retrospect, Beedon says she can't remember which was worse: Using a 90-pound electric jackhammer to break though a concrete slab or pulling down exposed-for-20-years, cigarette-smoke-blackened insulation from the cathedral ceiling. She clearly remembers the moment that rivaled all others in sheer panic: the day the couple applied black-acid etching stain to the kitchen's concrete countertops.

So outrageous was the scene, Beedon and Snow took to naming various project phases after film and television shows simply to inject some humor. Having jackhammered through the ground-level foundation to make way for new plumbing and sewer pipes, what came to mind was the mud mountain in "Close Encounters."

Building the outdoor railing and deck area also provided a few laughs. Snow finished it during one of the wettest winters on Seattle record: 72 rainy days in a soggy row. Beedon says the scene resembled a blue-tarped squatters' village straight out of TV's old junkman sitcom, "Sanford and Son."

Eventually, order overtook the chaos.

What emerged was a 2,000-square-foot, two-level, loft-like space nestled into a traditional neighborhood. A functional three-bedroom, three-bath home filled with contemporary wit. An entry-level garden low on maintenance and high on impact. A house that easily accommodates the cheerful antics of Beedon's 5-year-old daughter, Tuuli.

Overall, it is a spare space that delights in its quirks and colors, its mix of designer furniture and "recycled" art. There are bamboo floors, deep-purple heartwood trim, recycled-glass tile and a wall-of-zinc fireplace. The kitchen's black slate floor is fashioned from chalkboards salvaged from a school remodel. Lush walls glow with layers of pigmented color wash.

Each design decision - and execution - reflected the talent Snow and Beedon brought to the project. Having studied at the Northwest School of Wooden Boat Building in Port Townsend, Snow had made his living for years as a shipwright. Working with wood, metal and structural issues was his specialty. Beedon, a fine artist who paints suburban landscapes (a friend refers to them as "psychological profiles of postwar suburban architecture"), is also known for her custom lamp and lampshade designs and for her innovative interior paint finishes.

The couple was just as creative when it came to financing, arranging for a loan that would allow them to do almost all the work themselves without bringing in significant "outside" income. In yet another wise move, they rented a Capitol Hill apartment in which to live during the project.

Time-consuming and intense as the renovation was, Beedon says they came through it with flying couple colors. "We had it easy because we have such a similar, compatible aesthetic," she says. "Of course, sometimes it's good to yield when someone has a strong vision, even if you can't see what it is at the time."

The house had good bones but no particular defining architectural style. The couple considered that a plus.

"It wasn't a Victorian or Craftsman house so there were no guidelines we had to follow," says Snow. "It was an incomplete vision, and a perfect opportunity for us to do what we wanted without too much concern for protecting the past."

After much consideration, the couple decided the floor plan would remain relatively true to its original design, but the materials and trim would be upgraded and updated. That decision, however, didn't necessarily translate to expensive. For example, one of Beedon's favorite finds was a large wooden salad bowl rescued from Goodwill. It became a resplendent first-floor bathroom sink nestled comfortably in a hand-slumped glass-tile surround.

Tasteful as things are, Beedon, Snow and Tuuli don't let refined aesthetics get in the way of fun. On days when nothing else will do, they tack a portable basketball hoop to the zinc fireplace and shoot away.

Simple, spare, fun.

Victoria Medgyesi regularly writes about architectural, real estate and interior-design trends. Benjamin Benschneider is staff photographer for Pacific Northwest magazine.