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The electrifying impact of Hume Cronyn and Jessica Tandy has become the stuff of theatrical legend -from their first Broadway appearance together in the huge 1951 hit ''The Fourposter'' to ''The Gin Game'' in 1977, in which their performances as two contentious old sanitarium card sharks were a ferocious tour de force, so steeped in deft timing, nuance and emotional coloration that it resonated as an example of dramatic acting's capacity to own and consume the moment. The Pulitzer Prize-winning play earned Jessica Tandy a Tony Award.

''Foxfire,'' which was inspired by the popular series of books on Appalachian folkways and which Hume Cronyn co-wrote with the British writer Susan Cooper, is a quiet evocation of the life of Appalachian farm-ers working the poor mountain soil. Miss Tandy is Annie Nations, widow of Hector - played by Cronyn - who has been dead these five years but who is still very much alive to her. While the play itself has received mixed reviews, critics have invariably noted the towering craft of these two veteran actors. Everything Miss Tandy does, wrote The New York Times's theater critic Frank Rich, ''is so pure and right that only poets, not theater critics, should be allowed to write about her.'' One critic likened the Cronyns onstage to chamber musicians, ''each anticipating the other's moves.''

Both members since 1979 of the Theater Hall of Fame for their outstanding contributions to the American stage, the Cronyns have long shouldered the honorific title of First Couple of the American Theater. She had first taken Broadway by storm in 1947, creating the Blanche du Bois persona in ''A Streetcar Named Desire.'' He was nominated for an Oscar for his role in the 1944 film ''The Seventh Cross,'' winning a Tony in 1964 for his lead role in a ''Hamlet'' directed by John Gielgud.

Because of their fame in tandem, the Cronyns have come to be seen almost as a single talent instead of two very different actors from very different backgrounds: Jessica Tandy's childhood was one of grinding poverty in London, England; Hume Cronyn, on the other hand, grew up in a London, Ontario, mansion with nannies and servants.

Of the Cronyns' differing but exquisitely compatible acting styles, the director Elia Kazan, a close friend who has worked with them both, says: ''Both Jessie and Hume have that extraordinary ability as actors to express the dimension of a character through a natural discovery process that doesn't involve a lot of neurosis. Jessie explores the role from the inside out, while Hume likes to do a lot of research and to come to inhabit the character, getting at him from the outside inward. Either way is fine if it works, but what's most significant is how immaculate the characterizations are! With Hume Cronyn and Jessica Tandy, there's no sloppy, self-indulgent spillover into their personal life. It's the miracle of great acting: They don't get taken over by the characters; you get taken over by the characters!'' On this sunny afternoon, the atmosphere in the Cronyns' living room is at times palpably charged. Both in their early 70's, they are in a fragile transitional time: The dilemma posed in ''Foxfire'' has strangely dovetailed with the dilemmas in their own lives.

Just as the 79-year-old Annie Nations is confronted with a seemingly rootless son, who is asking her to wrench herself away from the past, the Cronyns are deeply concerned about their two children who are still unmarried: Chris, 39, who works in film production, and Tandy, 37, an actress. (Susan, 48, Miss Tandy's daughter from a previous marriage, is a teacher who is married with four children.) While their hotel residence is a forced circumstance (''We can't seem to find the time to look for a house,'' says Cronyn), their permanent haven is in their attachment to each other - and it is that kind of safe place that they want their children to have.

But what is also obvious to anyone who spends time with the Cronyns is that their sufficiency in each other has created a remoteness from loved ones that is a source of pain and perplexity for all parties involved.

''We've had a lot of adventures, but we've paid a big price,'' says Cronyn, an ever-present glowing pipe cocked in his palm. ''I have a lot of great friends whom I rarely ever see. Jessie and I can often lead a relatively monastic life.''

It is also a kind of life that has taken a toll on the Cronyns' relationship with their children. Several days earlier, their son, Chris, had said, ''It hasn't been front row, center stage with bouquets, for me and my sister Tandy. We didn't always see a lot of our parents when we were growing up. My father went to boarding schools at an early age, which he disliked, but we wound up in them, too.

''My mother is very gracious and very retiring next to my father, who tends to be a compulsive organizer and taskmaster. He never let either my sister or me forget his overall prowess in his chosen path, and so my sister and I could never quite please him by comparison. Consequently, I, at least, grew rebellious toward him as a teen-ager and for some time beyond that, too.

''The first time I ever made contact with my mother was when I was asked at the age of 8 to assume a small role in a Broadway play. It never happened, and one weekend morning before the thing fell through, my mother called me into the living room and said, 'So! Let's chat about this acting business.' I'm thinking I'd rather be out playing with my friends, but I sit next to her on the couch. She suddenly begins to cry.

''After a few moments, she says, 'Now, you may not think I'm crying, but anybody in the third row will.' It was a terrifying moment which stays with me to this day. Nothing could have convinced me my mother wasn't genuinely upset, and so when she turned it off like a TV I was stunned. It was very disorienting; children have no equipment to deal with that stuff.

''It took a lot of time and energy for my parents and me to get in touch and stay that way - which we have. I had to forget the lonely times. They've always been there for each other, but I was often removed from that.''

The Cronyns gingerly acknowledge their estrangement from their children in former years, handling the topic like a piece of delicate crystal, saying they hope they have made inroads toward amending the situation.

''My children saw more of their parents than I ever saw of my mother and father,'' says Cronyn, clearly uncomfortable. ''But that was a different time and a different convention. One of our problems in terms of the children was the touring, but we tried to correct that by spending summers and most holidays together. They're wonderful kids.''

''There have been times when Jessie couldn't abide me,'' Cronyn notes, changing the subject. ''When she was doing well in 'Streetcar' and I wasn't getting much work, we put a whole country between us for weeks until I got adjusted. And then there was the time during 'Gin Game' when I moved out and got my own hotel room for a few days so we could both breathe freely. I'll tell you a little secret: The first time we spent any time together we didn't exactly bill andcoo. Fact is, she thought I was a perfect jackass!''

He stands up and suggests I change seats with him, so that I'm on his right. ''Glass eye,'' he explains, sharply tapping his pipe stem against the replacement - an impish but bizarre gesture. He mutters that he lost his left eye to cancer in the spring of 1969. ''Obviously, I can't comfortably see anyone whom I'm speaking to if he's on my left.''

He settles into what appears to be his favorite piece of furniture, an overstuffed chair, frayed at the arms. ''Hmmm, O.K., now, ahhh. Very well, then. Er, what were we talking about?'' ''How we met, darling,'' Miss Tandy says, propping an elbow on the back of the low couch and resting her head upon her hand, so that the afternoon sun catches her profile.

''Yes, yes! Boy, I'm quick today, aren't I?'' he laughs, and pauses, staring at his wife as the light bathes her. ''You were so beautiful then, and still are, Jess,'' he whispers, then glances back at me, his face reddening slightly. essica Tandy was born on June 7, 1909, the daughter of a one-time traveling salesman and a mother who was headmistress in a school for retarded children. Miss Tandy grew up (along with two older brothers) in threadbare circumstances in a five-room brick flat in unfashionable northeast London.

''When I was in my teens,'' says Miss Tandy, ''and going home in a cab with friends after my acting classes, I'd tell the driver where I lived and he wouldn't even know where that was, which is highly uncommon for a London cabby. I was so mortified.''

Jessica's father died of cancer when she was 12 and her mother scrimped and saved, moonlighting at clerical jobs and teaching adult school at night, to pay for Jessica's private-school tuition. At 15, Jessica began her studies at the Ben Greet Academy of Acting in London. Her interest in theater had been aroused two years earlier when, being too young to be left home alone in the evenings, she accompanied her mother to adult school and enrolled, along with students 20 years her senior, in a Shakespeare appreciation course.

''My mother, being ambitious for all of us, endorsed the stage as a dignified way for me out of our bleak life,'' says Miss Tandy. ''It sounds terribly snobbish, but she raised us to be intellectually above our neighbors. She read to us, took us to plays, the pantomime, museums. I didn't date, ever. By the time I was in acting courses, both of my brothers had gotten scholarships to Oxford.''

When she was 23, in 1932, she caused a sensation in Europe with her portrayal of an impetuous schoolgirl in ''Children in Uniform.'' That same year, she was married to the British actor Jack Hawkins (''A fine actor, a poor husband; it was not a good marriage'') and became the toast of the West End. An acclaimed performance in John Gielgud's company as Ophelia in ''Hamlet'' further established her reputation, as did her work opposite Laurence Olivier in his Old Vic production of ''Henry V.''

In 1940, she journeyed to New York City (with her daughter, Susan, then 6 years old; Hawkins was then serving in the British Army) to appear in a play called ''Jupiter Laughs,'' which was notable only for a backstage visitor after the curtain one night who would help persuade her to remain on this side of the Atlantic - Hume Cronyn.

''It's not easy to say how I decided on an acting career,'' says Cronyn. ''As a child, I'd played theater games, and I was sent to McGill University to study law and art. Everything seemed to be frowned upon by my family as being socially unacceptable, and I grew to detest that. My poor mother had to fend off the family dismay when I went public with my decision.''

In 1932, at the depths of the Depression, the handsome, natty Cronyn arrived in New York City to enroll at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts. He drove an air-cooled Buick roadster and, with a princely allowance of $173 a week, was the dandy of the speakeasies.

Hume Cronyn was born on July 18, 1911, the fifth child of Hume Blake Cronyn and the former Frances Amelia Labatt of the Labatt brewing family. The senior Cronyn was a member of the Canadian Parliament and chief executive or director of several companies. Sixfoot-two and charismatic, ''he had the equipment to be an actor,'' says his youngest son.

Young Hume spent his first seven years at Woodfield, a magnificent Edwardian mansion in London, Ontario, that was the family seat. His enrollment in a boarding school was painful. He missed his parents terribly and, being short, he was the target of much bullying by older boys. (He later took up boxing, becoming a lightning-fast featherweight at 127 pounds; he is still a sinewy 128.)

He became quite close to his mother, but by the time such a thing might have been possible with his father, Sir Hume was suffering from cerebral sclerosis, a hardening of the arteries of the brain. The young Cronyn's strong dislike for his regimented upper-class upbringing was woefully accentuated every time the family was dressed for dinner and his father suffered one of his epilepticlike seizures.

''So long as I live,'' he recounts gravely, ''I will never forget that night at the dinner table when my father had a spasm and his hand was involuntarily slammed down into his steaming hot plate of golden buck - a dish of eggs and cheese. He was rendered unconscious and we all had to keep our places while the butler came over and righted my father, wiped him off carefully and served him a fresh plate.

''After a bit, he regained consciousness. He looked around at all of us, bewildered, and then moved to pick up his silverware as we resumed the conversation exactly where it had broken off. But as he went to grasp the fork he stopped, staring at his hand, which was scalded. He had no idea why.''

When he reached McGill University, the young Cronyn broke loose ''with a vengeance'' from the social strictures of his boyhood. By the time he had made his Broadway debut, in 1934, he was quite the social gadabout.

Things, however, were not going well when he and Miss Tandy first met. She was broke, and so thin that her last $100, which she kept tucked in her girdle, had somehow slipped out and been lost during an audition. He, at 29, ''had been married for one year to a marvelous girl,'' but there was a mutual decision to divorce. ''When I met Jessie,'' says Cronyn, ''I was engaged to be married to someone, but never expected to be in love again, which is a conclusion you come to easily at 29.

''Anyhow, so I took Jessie to supper - she insists it was lunch - and it was not an enchanted encounter. I was making all these jokes about the English and she thought I was a pompous fool. It didn't start well, but I pursued her. She was very slow in responding. Very.'' She was, after all, still married to Jack Hawkins.

About this time, Cronyn's mother was diagnosed as having terminal cancer, and the family thought a wedding would be inappropriate just then. The nuptials were postponed. And postponed. Cronyn's intended became uneasy, but he continued to straddle the fence, wooing the mildly recalcitrant Miss Tandy, placating the flustered fiancee. By the time the errant groom finally decided he did indeed want to be wed again - to Miss Tandy - the family of his betrothed had thrown in the towel.

Cronyn then wooed Miss Tandy in earnest. Evenings, he wined and dined her, turning up at her front door in white tie, tails and top hat, his Buick roadster humming at the curb. They would go dancing, to the theater, and to night spots with friends.

Cronyn was almost incorrigibly jealous of the men in Miss Tandy's life, past and present. Finally, says Miss Tandy, ''I told Hume, quite firmly, 'What I am is also what I've been, and if you truly love me as you say you do, you will love the sum total of what I am and who I am, and just leave it at that. So just stop it!''

''And I only stopped it,'' he says with a wink and a jaunty puff of his pipe, ''because the lady agreed to marry me! So you see, the strength of our relationship from the start has been that I agree to listen to her as long as she promises to pay no attention whatever to what I blabber.'' n 1942, Alfred Hitchcock (who had stumbled on a screen test that Cronyn had done for Paramount some years earlier) invited him to try out for a part in the film ''Shadow of a Doubt'' (which he eventually got). Traveling together to Hollywood, Cronyn and Miss Tandy decided upon arrival to take the plunge. After waiting out months of divorce proceedings, they were married on Sept. 27.

While Cronyn, who was initially under contract to M-G-M, became a character actor in demand, appearing in some 16 films over the next 10 years, Miss Tandy landed mostly small parts in half as many pictures during her indenture with 20th Century-Fox. ''Nobody out there really took me seriously as an actress,'' says Miss Tandy. ''Hume really engineered my first significant parts in movies.''

Their first film appearance together was in ''The Seventh Cross'' in 1944 with Spencer Tracy. Asked on the set how he was getting along with Cronyn - who was already notorious for his obsessive attention to detail -Tracy quipped, ''The son of a bitch would fix the damned lights if they'd let him.''

Cronyn turned to screenwriting after the picture with Tracy in order to keep from going stir crazy during the months he waited for his next role. He was fortunate enough to have hooked up with Hitchcock, who cast him in ''Lifeboat'' in 1944. Cronyn went on to write screenplay treatments for the portly, eccentric genius. ''It's all true about there being no film to speak of on Hitch's cutting-room floor,'' says Cronyn. ''He'd frame every shot in advance and that was virtually it, with no backup master shots, experimental closeups or things from 10 off-hand angles. He'd be so bored during the actual shooting of the exhaustively prearranged pictures that he'd engage you in long conversations about the wonders of the British railway system, which he knew backward and forward. And he always kept a phone at hand on a little table to make random longdistance calls.

'' 'Hume,' he'd say, 'do you have any friends in Beirut? Let's ring Beirut and see who's awake over there!' And so he would.'' Hitchcock was also ''an avid collector and teller of long, involved jokes and humorous anecdotes,'' says Cronyn. ''Many times, in the midst of intense script conferences, he would interrupt out of the blue to tell one. Finally, I couldn't prevent myself from asking him why the hell he always picked these critical moments to begin these rambling tales.

'' 'It's because we've been pressing too hard,' he said calmly. 'You never get it right when you press.' '' In the meantime, Miss Tandy was concentrating on the raising of Susan, Chris, who arrived in 1943, and Tandy, born in 1945. Outside recreation centered on the Hollywood version of charades known as ''the Game'' - the marathon sessions held in Gene Kelly's house, with Keenan Wynn, Paul Draper and Van Johnson joining in, and Judy Garland often dropping by to sing a few songs by Hugh Martin and Ralph Blane, who would be there at the piano. There were also the seven-course banquets at Bob Nathan's mansion, which might be followed by brandy in the drawing room with Thomas Mann or Artur Rubinstein.

It was Cronyn who finally rescued his wife from the jobless quagmire by directing her in 1946 in ''Portrait of a Madonna,'' one of nine one-act Tennessee Williams plays he had optioned over the years.

Joseph L. Mankiewicz, a director at 20th Century-Fox, fired off a memo to Darryl F. Zanuck after seeing Jessica Tandy's performance in ''Portrait of a Madonna'': ''I have rarely seen acting to equal hers, and even more rarely seen a very tough, invited professional audience brought cheering to its feet as spontaneously. By the way, she does not play an Englishwoman.''

''The 'Englishwoman' line summed up the mentality Jessica faced then,'' says Mankiewicz. ''The narrowness of most people in Hollywood in the mid- to late 1940's was beyond imagining. If you had, for instance, an English accent you were like a piece of furniture that might or might not fit in a certain scene. That was it.

''Still, a lot of people saw the enormous potential in Jessica because of 'Madonna.' I remember Sam Goldwyn coming up to me after seeing Jessica and saying, 'Joe, that play has got the mucus' - he meant 'nucleus' - 'of a great story. I'm tellin' ya, Joe, with Tandy the mucus is there.' ''

Predictably, it was Broadway that took affirmative action. Elia Kazan and Irene Selznick flew in from New York to catch ''Madonna,'' and their interest led to Miss Tandy's being cast as Blanche du Bois - opposite Marlon Brando - in the 1947 production of Tennessee Williams's ''A Streetcar Named Desire.'' In making the character of the mad nymphomaniac one of the most renowned in the American theater, Miss Tandy established herself as one of the finest actresses in the world.

''I've always felt that one of the most fascinating things about Jessica's performance in 'Streetcar' was that she made me realize what a lady the tramp character is,'' says Kazan, who was director of the play. ''It was brilliant, totally intuitive acting. That is what great acting is all about, but Hollywood, then and now, has always had trouble getting that through its thick collective head.''

As Miss Tandy found out for herself. ''I was back in Hollywood for two weeks after 'Streetcar' when the Fox casting director called,'' says Miss Tandy, who would soon lose out to Vivien Leigh the movie counterpart of the role she had created on Broadway. ''I get on the line and he asks, 'How tall are you?' I say, 'I'm 5 feet 4.' He said, 'Fine, that's all I wanted to know.' He never called back. It was good for both Hume and me, though. We learned in this short life where we truly belonged: in the theater.''

With ''Foxfire'' playing on Broadway, a measure of the Cronyns' creative anxiety is now directed elsewhere. Cronyn is collaborating once more with Susan Cooper, on the script for ''The Dollmaker,'' a teleplay adaptation of the novel by Harriet Arnow that was commissioned by Jane Fonda. The setting is again Appalachia, and filming for the three-hour ABC-TV movie begins in the spring with Miss Fonda in the lead.

Miss Tandy also appears in two new movies, ''Still of the Night'' (a suspense thriller starring Meryl Streep and Roy Scheider) and ''Best Friends'' (a romantic comedy with Burt Reynolds and Goldie Hawn in the lead). In both cases, Miss Tandy's roles are small ones. ''My parts are never big in films, it seems,'' she says, ''but that's all right. I'm no longer willing to devote time to developing myself as any sort of presence in Hollywood. Films aren't as satisfying to me as the theater.'' Through the years, the Cronyns gathered many like-minded people around them, such as John Gielgud, Laurence Olivier, Gene Kelly, Elia Kazan, Tennessee Williams, Alec Guinness, Alfred Hitchcock, Joseph Mankiewicz, Jose Ferrer, Robert Whitehead, Zoe Caldwell, Arlene Francis, Henry Fonda, Thornton Wilder, Mike Nichols, Karl Malden, Sean O'Casey.

But they have reserved the lion's share of their inner selves for each other. One proud, inquiring woman, bent on escaping the doleful essence of poverty, meets one proud, curious man, intent on fleeing from the loneliness and isolation of privilege. One obsessive man, who seeks to figure out the world, falls in love with one driven young woman who longs to express all she knows.

One wants to fill the cup, one wants to drain it, and vice versa, in gentle sequence, on and on. Setting aside his spent pipe near the close of our talk, Cronyn begins to contemplate the enormous differences between his and Miss Tandy's background. Chopping the air with his hands, he says in exasperation: ''Look at our pasts! You had so much struggle in yours and I was so fortunate, yet you have all the cheer and I'm the one who gets so broody and anxious and chagrined. It doesn't make sense!''

''No, it doesn't really,'' says Miss Tandy, ''but it's O.K., Hume. We each knew our needs.'' The sun is nearly gone, the darkening room lit by one lamp. Chris and Tandy are on the way over to meet them for an early dinner. The Cronyns say that their ''deepest fear'' in life now is that their children won't find the safe place that they have somehow located for themselves; that they won't discover a purpose in the world they can share with someone else.

The atmosphere in the living room is suddenly tense.''If Chris and Tandy just each had someone they could hold fast to,'' says Cronyn, leaning forward, his voice trembling. He looks angry, frustrated, largely with himself. ''If they each had someone -''

''Now, Hume,'' says his wife, very softly, and turns to me. ''The children show no signs of wanting to be married. We're getting on in years. It's a sore spot with Hume, and perhaps a sorrow with me. But they'll be fine.''

''I'm sorry,'' Cronyn apologizes, thinking out loud. ''When I became an actor, coming from my background, well, a lot of things were not allowed. It was not good form to show emotion; you did not impose your feelings on other people. I was so taut inside.''

''And I gradually learned,'' says Miss Tandy, ''that in my best work I remember to withhold things emotionally, so that the audience can feel them.''

''We've both had inhibitions we had to conquer,'' says Cronyn. ''And we did, darling,'' says Miss Tandy, her voice scarcely above a whisper. ''We've done it together.'' ''I don't understand life,'' says Cronyn, ''but I think the key, if not the answer, to it is affirmation. We can't figure it out, any of us, but if we can embrace the mystery, it can be quite wonderful.''

There is a smattering of quiet talk. Then the Cronyns rise to their feet; goodbyes are exchanged. My host walks me out to the elevator, and then he returns to the apartment, leaving the front door wide open to receive the children, due any moment.

Miss Tandy is standing near the doorway with her back to her husband, gazing out at the twilight, a light breeze playing upon her white hair. Cronyn walks up behind her and touches her finger, the one with her wedding ring.

She grasps his hand tightly. Then, as the last traces of daylight vanish from the horizon, he embraces the mystery.

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What is a sunroom? Is it just the same thing as a Florida room or a solarium? Well ... yes!

When it comes to a home’s rooms (or real estate listings), we expect to see bedrooms, bathrooms, living rooms, and perhaps the occasional playroom or den. But a sunroom is often an unexpected bright bonus. But just what is a sunroom, and is it something you truly want in your home?

What is a sunroom?

A sunroom by any other name ... is probably the same thing as a sunroom. Also called a solarium, Florida room, garden room, sun parlor, patio room, winter garden, or conservatory, it's basically a space with windows or screens on three sides that let the sun shine right through—often on the southern side of buildings in northern climes to capture maximum exposure. They can be insulated and equipped with heating/cooling, or as simple as a screened-in patio.

Sunrooms are a popular amenity because–let's face it—who doesn't want to soak up a few more rays, without enduring chilly winds or biting bugs?

“A sunroom will lengthen the amount of time that you can enjoy sunlight from the comfort of inside your home," says Kaitlin Martin of Choice Windows, Doors, and More, in Lancaster, PA. The sunrooms also has versatility going for it, serving as a dining room, playroom, or office. In fact, one of the most famous solariums—built in the White House in 1927—served as a recovery room for Ronald Reagan after he survived an assassination attempt, leading him to call it his favorite room in the presidential residence.

Is the sunroom just for warm climates?

So what if your neck of the woods doesn’t see much sun most of the year? How much use you will get from a sunroom depends both on your climate and the materials you use to build one. If it's insulated and roofed with traditional roofing materials, it can be used year-round (often called a four-season sunroom) no matter where you live.

On the other hand, if you buy a snap-together model from a big-box retailer like Home Depot, it’s pretty safe to say you won’t get much use out of it in January if you live in Minnesota.

How much does a sunroom cost?

A very basic DIY sunroom with no insulation will run a couple of thousand dollars. However, if you’re talking about a drywalled room with heating and air-conditioning vents or a separate system, experts say a ballpark range is $35,000 to $50,000. But it varies greatly depending on the materials you use, the size of the room, and other features you choose.

“Some are only simple concrete or tile floors with surrounding windows and screens than can be opened in good weather and closed against inclement weather," says Chris Michaud, a broker from Westford, MA. "Some of the more extravagant sunrooms feature indoor pools, fish ponds, indoor gardens, fountains, and extravagant building materials and amenities.”

For those who are worried about the adverse health effects of the sun's ultraviolet rays, sunroom windows can be equipped with UV-protected glass.

Yet even with insulation, one downside to consider is that the massive windows of a sunroom can boost your energy bill to keep the room comfortably warm in colder climates (or cool in hot climates). On the flip side, if constructed just right, sunrooms can actually lower energy bills in cooler months since they heat up quickly. This explains why solariums are often incorporated in passive solar building designs that collect and store heat through the proper placement and angling of windows rather than through more "active" technology like solar panels.

What is the return on investment for a sunroom?

Marlee Newman, a real estate agent with Helaine Newman in Fairfax, VA, says while buyers always like a sunroom and it can increase the square footage of a home (which is good for resale), she wouldn’t advise putting one in for that reason alone.

“I would only recommend the sunroom add-on if the home does not have adequate living space and the homeowners are already looking to add on to the space square footage-wise,” Newman says. “They are not as critical to buyers as a beautiful, updated kitchen and bathroom. I would advise a seller to invest in these areas first before thinking about sunroom renovations.”

But like any home improvement, you should first and foremost consider how much you'll enjoy a sunroom as your deciding factor. So if more sun would brighten up your living quarters, it may very well be worth every penny.

Julie Ryan Evans is an editor and writer who has covered everything from politics to pop culture and beyond. She loves running, reading, cold wine, and hot weather.

Follow @julieryanevans

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