I once had a boyfriend who would say, “Now, there’s a house for you…” every time we’d drive past an old, abandoned farmhouse, half-sunken into the sagebrush and missing every pane of glass from its warped window-frames.
I didn’t dare ask if this oblique remark was a commentary on my bank account, my fondness for junky antiques, or my desire to live among many animals and spend a good portion of the day outside. Maybe his observation was a poke at my preference for solitude or my refusal to be tied to anything too sound or stationary.
Or maybe I’m just paranoid.
Either way, the people who know me well understand that I am a romantic. I wasn’t putting off purchasing a house because of a lack ability to commit (as one crazy ex insinuated). I was waiting until a place swept me off my feet. I was holding out until I fell in love with a house – the right one.
Guess what? I’m in love.
And it all happened so easily, as love is supposed to.
Over the last few years, I have been looking at homes, studying the markets, comparing prices, making my lists of pros and cons. I was a responsible home-shopper. I just figured with persistence it would eventually happen for me. “Just keep looking,” a woman realtor I met at a bar told me. “Finding a home is like finding a man. Just go online, list what you need and want, go look at a bunch, and eventually, voila!”
Around this time I decided to stop looking for houses.
Three months ago while I was waitressing in Martinsdale, a gentleman walked in the door, sat down at the bar, and ordered a piece of chocolate cake and a tall glass of milk. A friend at the Inn pointed out the man and told me that he owned a cute little place; she said awhile back he mentioned selling it.
The man and I struck up a conversation. We talked about crossword puzzles (he was doing one at the time), fishing (which I know nothing about), chocolate cake (which I know a lot about), and his cute little house that he, indeed, was thinking about selling.
Eventually, it was time for me to get off work. The man invited me over to see the house that he was thinking about selling. Right then and there, I followed him home.
It was love-at-first-sight: with the house, not the man. I should say the man is very nice too; I wouldn’t want to hurt his feelings.
Thankfully, I pulled my head out of the clouds long enough to complete loan approvals, home inspections, appraisals.
I am now the owner of my first home.
I am no fool. I realize that my little-house-on-the-prairie and I are still in the honeymoon phase of our relationship. But it feels so good to be madly in love.
I knew there was a home for me somewhere.