I love my house. It’s small, drafty, older than Madonna’s lingerie collection, and in need of both minor and major repair throughout. It was built about 100 years ago by the first doctor to establish a practice in rural Lakeview, the Mayberry-esque community I live in.Doc Marston did a lot of the construction work himself, or so say the old timers down at McKenna’s Pub. Everything was custom built; windows, doors, archways. So it’s impossible to get new storm windows without having them made to order. That’s why it’s drafty.
Despite the problems, I love the place. It has “character,” a polite word realtors use to describe a home like mine. That’s also the word overly kind teachers use when talking to parents about their kid, the one the teacher suspects will grow up to be featured prominently on the FBI’s most wanted list.
In other words, it’s not always a good thing.
But I live here and I have no intention of moving until The Lovely Mrs. Taylor finally forces me to toddle off with her to Florida, where I will no doubt end my days playing golf, wearing plaid Bermuda shorts and keeping an eye out for ‘gators.
That’s the plan, anyway.
That plan almost changed last summer, however, when a house near ours went up for auction. It wasn’t just any house, but the house I have been dreaming of since reaching the age of reason (in my case, late last August).
The auction house listed it as an “executive home,” realtor-speak for “You need an ‘executive income’ to consider buying this one.” This house, however, had been sitting vacant for years. The bank wanted to unload it and now.
We saw the house frequently, as it’s on our regular evening bike route. We loved the huge lot, the sheer size of the place, the gargantuan indoor swimming pool, fireplaces, rec room, sunken living room, slate flooring … I could go on, but you get the idea.
We did a walkthrough. It needed work; that was obvious. It had, after all, been setting empty for years. Ceilings were cracked; bees had set up shop under the eaves; a beautiful house for all that, but definitely in need of some TLC.
My father-in-law, Big John, who knows a thing or two about contracting, gave it the once-over, shaking his head the entire time. Apparently, there was a lot of stuff going on Mrs. T and I didn’t notice; serious stuff that needed serious work and would cost serious money.
In the end, we decided to not bid on the house. The guy who did got it for a song, about fifty grand. Word around town is he’s sunk over $100,000 into repairs so far and is still hemorrhaging cash like crazy.
The roof had to be completely replaced, as did most of the support beams. While the contractors were doing that, the fireplace fell into the living room. The pool plumbing was mysteriously absent. The pipes in the crawlspace were rotted and everything was (yuck alert!) flushing into the basement. Workers have been pounding away out there for months now and the place still isn’t habitable.
Somehow, I’ve managed to get over my disappointment at not landing my dream house. I consider it a bullet dodged.
And I’ve re-learned to love my own diminutive, drafty domicile. After all, it has character.
Missed a week? More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.
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