Home Is Where The Heart Is. Is Mine HERE?

We moved to NC 8 years ago after taking early retirement in West Virginia. We bought the first house a year or so before we moved down here and had the Realtor rent it out until we came. We thought we were ready to downsize but alas after losing 1000 square feet we were pretty miserable. A year later we moved again, gained back the square footage but it was a split foyer and my knees were not liking all the ups and downs. Four years later we started looking again (remember I was a Realtor, we use to flip houses trying to get out of debt, and I may be part gypsy). Anyway, I have always been fairly fascinated by moving across town, across the country, etc. until we headed to NC that is. But that is another post.

When we were first looking at houses I went out for a drive alone through the country one day and I found a road that looked interesting. I turned down into the neighborhood and I admired how these folks could see the mountain range from their front porch and I thought I'll bet there is never a house on this street for sale unless somebody dies. It was that kind of place.

OK, 5 years later and two houses later, we are out looking. My husband is not so fond of moving again so he says this is IT. Last house for us. Make up my mind I can live in it forever before we buy it. We have looked at dozens upon dozens of houses. Can we find THE one? No way. I am even embarrassed with this Realtor of ours (even though she has already made 2 commissions off us and about to make the third). Then guess what happens? I see a house for sale on THE street from 5 years ago. I call the Realtor, I grab the husband and we all meet at the house. I am oohing and ahhing all the way there. "The trees are 100 plus years old, waiting for swings, there is a full front porch, we can see the mountain, there's a screened in back porch, etc." We go in the house, it is empty. The doctor that had lived there has already bought another house 200 miles from here. I HATE the house. The carpet is blue faded in places to pink/purple. The blinds on the windows (every single one of them) are light baby blue (really). It starts raining and looking out the window I see the yard turning into mud. I sit on the stairway to the second floor and tears start running down my face. The Realtor is following my husband from room to room while he is raving about how he can see the mountains from every window and how the family room in the basement will be a great art studio and a fine place for his organ (he composes music and paints). Finally the Realtor (who after being with me through all the houses and moves) notices that I am missing. She comes to find me and says this is it, THE house, it has everything you told me you want, master bedroom, laundry, etc. are all on first floor, it is a Cape Cod with a basement. Let's get the paperwork going she says. I say, uh, notice the tears, I don't like it here. She says to get off my rump and realize that this does not HAVE to be the last house, that I am not dead yet and to quit thinking that way. She tells me to suck it up and get over the "death" thing, the last house thing. She is getting on my nerves (I am in the middle of a crisis here).

We leave. We keep looking at other houses. My husband brings up THE house about every 3 days and I explain to him nicely the first couple of times that it is not going to happen. Three months or so pass, we still haven't found anything. Realtor says to us after showing us the 112th house, why don't we go back over and look at THE house. I feel like she is sucking up to my husband and I am out numbered, we go. The sun is shining, the flowers are blooming, we walk in, the carpet has been replaced, all the blinds are removed, every room has been painted SW Antique White. The violins and harps start playing and I say "where's the paper work?"

The rest is history, well maybe herstory:) I know, you already hear another post coming with the rest of everybody's story, right?