There's No Place Like Home

I love our house.

It's old and filled with character. From its raising in Tyler's Azalea District, to its migration out to Brownsboro, to its sad intermission of neglect and decay, to my purchase of it while I was still a single woman in between husbands, it's sheltered and protected me for over 15 years- longer than I've ever lived anywhere my entire life.

My husband was my beau when I purchased the house and he walked through it with me before I bought it- not with a realtor or in the company of the owners, just by dint of there being no annoying obstructions like doors or walls standing in the way of walking through it. Always a man of few words yet deep thought, his only comment was "Lotta work". And it has been a lotta work- and it's not even "finished" yet- all the finish work remains to be done. Ward's never lived in a Fixer Upper before, but he loves this house too- and the 15 years he's lived here have been longer than he's ever lived anywhere in his entire life.

Our son was born here. Not as in "we brought him home from the hospital to this house" but as in "he was born HERE- right here in our bed with the aid of midwives- like...on purpose". Obviously, Alec's never lived anywhere longer in his entire life.

About ten years ago we started looking for larger parcels of land with the intention of moving this house somewhere else- hey, it's done it before...but all the many hundreds of parcels we drove past and the dozens we actually walked were not nearly as pretty as the mere three acres we've got here.

Five years ago we found what we were looking for only three miles from here. Smaller in size than what we thought we wanted- we'd thought we wanted something with at least twenty acres and what we bought is only twelve- it's nevertheless got so many more features and micro-eco-systems that it "lives bigger".

One thing only casts a sad shadow on this otherwise perfect piece of land- the trees arch across the tiny county road and meet in the middle- the road Home is a living tunnel across two wooden bridges.

Moving the house would necessitate cutting those trees back to get the house through.

Ain't happening.

So the house stays, and the quest for the perfect stewards for our beloved homestead started. We've been close a few times- three to be exact- but it never quite happened. And most of the last few years that's been okay because we've been in Houston so much dealing with that pesky cancer and the aftermath thereof.

We've just come reeling back after a particularly nasty stretch and just like magic we have not one, but TWO possibly perfect families for our home and the chances are good that this time it will really happen- we'll be handing over keys to the front door to someone and pulling out of our yard for the last time within months (I can't say "weeks" as that gives me a panic attack. Those who've seen our STUFF understand).

So what's the problem?

The new place is GREAT- there's a hill rising 150ft. in the back right corner from the low point in the front left corner- the wetlands filled with springs. There's not one, but TWO live creeks that never go dry even in the worst drought years anyone can remember, but that also never jump their banks when everything else is flash-flooding. There are huge trees and dogwoods and wildlife to beat the band. Meadows and shady glades and an old slatted hay barn and...and...and...

Hey. Where's the house? Where's the animal barn and fences?? Where's the WELL???

*Exactly*.

The Stuff of Our Lives

We're packrats.

All of us are packrats. If we bring something into our house, it's found a home forever. Doesn't have to be useful, or valuable, or even recognizable- once over the threshold, it's a permanent fixture.

Alot of our friends are also packrats- the ones we feel most comfortable with. We do have friends who seem to "travel lightly" through life- who can actually say "If I'm not going to use this again, or if I don't know what the heck it is, or if I haven't laid hands or eyes on it for a year, out it goes".

Those people kind of creep me out a little bit.

Now, I'm not talking the stuff of Cops- piles of trash and garbage climbing the walls, oozing out from under the beds, and evolving or mutating its way out of the fridge. I try to keep all that stuff under control (although there are two or three closets in this house I won't open).

No, our stuff is mostly books, magazines and memorabilia. Photographs, negatives, prints and enlargements stack up the years and vacations, births and birthdays before I went (mostly) digital.

Books. Don't speak to me of Books. Every one of us is a sucker for a good book. I know there's a world of information on the interwebs, including books available to read, but there's something about holding a real book, feeling its heft, turning the pages- reading is (or should be) a tactile event as well as a visual one. Given a choice of destination for an afternoon, all of us will choose Bookstore over mall, or sporting event, or watering hole/eatery. The only thing that rates higher than a bookstore is a park during pretty weather.

So we have books. Thousands of 'em. They've long outgrown our many bookshelves and stack on every horizontal surface in every room and stalagmite up around those surfaces- satellite islands of books surrounding the mainland shelves, dressers and tables.

Any inch not occupied by photographs or books contains memorabilia- the stuff our moms called knick knacks. Not purchased from the furniture store, or Pier One- the knick knacks of our life were hand-picked by my favorite designers- my children and friends. From a tin rooster to a family of resin giraffes to a carved and painted gourd each piece reminds me of the giver and it gives me happiness to dust them, to handle them, to be able to touch something linking me to a loved one no matter how far the distance or time between us may be.

Now, all this stuff would not be a problem except...

...we're fixin' to move. We need to market the house.

If you have ever seen five minutes of the Home and Garden Channel, you know that a house must be more than clean, more than located in a good neighborhood, and more than priced fairly.

It must be "staged".

Staging a house means, in a nutshell, that all personal items must be removed, and all rooms painted a neutral color. Perhaps now is a good time to mention that our rooms are lavender, red, peach, blue, yellow, pink, green, and even a plaid- not a neutral in sight.

Are we starting to see the problem?

I guess I shouldn't worry.

No one in their right mind will make it past the drooly giant dog on the front mat, the turkey on the porch railing, the goats in the yard, the chickens in the tree and the ducks everywhere else.

*We're doomed.*

"Wanted- funny farm desires new caretakers- must love old houses, big trees, small livestock and have excellent sense of humor and imagination."