His house is immaculate, but contractor Arthur J. Paul works at it, a little each day

PHOTO by ROSHEILA ROBLES

What kind of house does a contractor live in? A custom-built house, of course. And so, while Arthur and Lori Paul’s Depression-era home in Bixby Knolls spent its first 50 years as a modest stucco box with neatly grooved interior window moldings (and, just maybe, some of those three-panel doors), it is now something more.

The front yard—lit by twinkling little lights called Enchanted Fireflies—envelops you like some canopy of wild greenery, because that’s what it is: a carefully controlled forest.

“I get in an hour in the morning at least,” Arthur says, showing me his potting area and the side yard, and of course the backyard—which is similarly alive with plumeria, lemon and orange trees, Norway pines, and Australian fire bushes. (“They need trimming,” he says, but they look fine.)

“I had this vision in my head quite a long time ago,” says Arthur, who bought this place in 1986, “that we would have this mantle of green.”

Now they do—punctuated here and there with birdhouses made by Lori’s dad. (Anywhere else, you’d brace yourself for the requisite accompanying whirligigs—but here, the birdhouses are one with the urban forest.)

That was actually how they met, cute: Arthur bought one of those birdhouses, he met Lori, and in 2001, they were married. (Vow renewals were handled recently by none other than The District Weekly’s Dave Wielenga, who is licensed to wed.)

Marrying a contractor must surely bring with it certain . . . perks, shall we say? Because while Arthur has spent years raising standard-issue bungalow ceilings, bumping out walls here and there, and adding an exit to every room, he’s also given the house an overall vision—“cottage”—and little details you’ve probably never seen.

“I want you to see this,” Lori says, leading me into the kitchen, which Arthur expanded to run the entire depth of the house—and added a second exit door to the front garden, because he’s an admitted “door freak.”

It’s now a vision in white—white backsplash over the Thermador range, and everywhere, white rustic cabinets Arthur made with triple-grooved routing on their corners and doors that recall batten boards.

Call it “modern cottage”: The “this” is the dishwasher—housed in one of those old-timey cabinets. It’s raised a good 18 inches off the ground, and the clean dishes live just a turn away in a deep drawer in the kitchen island—so you never have to bend down. Why didn’t you think of that?

Then there’s the matter of Lori’s bathroom—a gleaming well-lit palace of a place (Arthur is also a “light freak”) with a makeup area and lots of shelves.

“I was on vacation with my parents in Tahoe,” Lori says as we regard the Jacuzzi tub, “and I came back, and he had done this. We’d talked about it, but . . . I opened up the door, and it was down to the dirt.” Now, the modern tub seems like a natural. Why?

Despite all the doors, which you don’t really notice, and its ample furnishings—organic little statues of eagles over an ornate 1906 Wisconsin dining table in the dining room, figures of zebras and giraffes elsewhere, an upright piano lit by candelabras in the living room—there’s something seamless and nearly timeless in the fit and finish of this house, and in its mix of furniture.

Take the walnut dining table—or rather, don’t. Arthur saved it from a relative who’d once contemplated turning it into firewood. Its ornately turned arms and hand-carved reliefs somehow take this house back to its beginnings.

“My aunt had it in her house,” Arthur says, “and my brother and I used to play pingpong on it.”

Not any more. Now, like his skill at making and remaking houses, it’s on display.

Tags: arthur j. paul, homes, Long Beach, Shelter