Christmas Is All Around Us

I met my dream home last Saturday. I had spied the listing on realtor.com just a few days before, in one of those masochistic internet “window-shopping” binges that always end up causing nothing but a load of discontent. I knew very well that the home-buying stars are far from being aligned for us right now, but I wanted to see it anyway. Just for fun.

I documented the directions to 4850 Evans Way in my favorite method: an imaginary topographical map based on surrounding landmarks that I have never seen, committed tentatively to memory. (To hell with GPS!) It works almost every time, and gives every venture a certain nervous ambience that heightens the adventurous feelings.

Headed down I-37 somewhere south of Bloomington, we careened off the highway onto one of those little side roads that doesn’t even get its own stoplight, much less an exit sign. This led us to a relatively busy country road, where we annoyed the local motorists by gawking at the scenery and slowing down to 20mph at all those 15mph hairpin turns. We wound down and around, back up and over, past fields, forests, mobile homes, limestone quarries, and even a couple out of place housing complexes. I kept a keen eye out for a road sign for Evans Street—even so, we ended up blowing right by it. Turning around, we went back to investigate the one side street that we had passed, thinking it was a driveway. Sure enough, at some point past the turn there was an ancient metal sign tacked to a tree that looked like an oversized, old license plate. It read: West Evans Street, and listed the numbers of the houses that could be found down this narrow way.

The narrow way became even narrower, and we followed it at a slow pace, down and up like a roller coaster, the woods squeezing in on us from both sides. We passed driveway after driveway, admiring the homesteads that were visible from the road. After passing one nondescript gate, I piped up, “That was it!” We came to a halt in front of a large, rather newish looking house with a collection of loiterers out front, staring at us with suspicion. We slowly backed from their view, back to the two posts and the sign that said “4850.”

As we turned into the drive, the first thing we noticed was the deep chasm splitting the dirt driveway straight down the middle. After a moment’s hesitation, Jeff continued to ease the truck up a hill that looked like it was splitting at the seam. And the seam happened to be right where we needed to drive. One miscalculation and we would be dreadfully stuck.

Concentrating on the water damaged road, I didn’t take the time to look around me as we ascended. Sunny, overgrown meadows opened up to the left and right, rife with Queen Anne’s lace, and other vulgaris reaching five feet tall or more. Halfway up the hill the road mended somewhat, and we noticed a small, three-stalled horse shelter to the right, tucked away behind some small ornamental trees. On the left were the remnants of an old fenced in area, only slightly less overgrown with weeds.

Climbing to the peak of the hill, we came to a rest in front of the house and clambered out. A simple white gothic farmhouse rose in front of us, in a tantalizing state of dilapidation. It looked much like the quintessential homestead from American Gothic, and had I had some forethought I would have brought some garden tools so that we could pose in front for a photo.

Jeff and I stood before the porch and stared up at the dark second story windows. “It looks haunted,” we both said, and then looked at each other. A weather vane graced the peak of the rusted tin roof, and an old plaque hung just below, stating, “1870.” The house was built in 1870. And from the looks of it, had been unceremoniously abandoned 140 years later.

We made our way around the house, peering into windows and grimacing over the areas that begged for repair. I didn’t go so far as to imagine how I would arrange my furniture in the vast front parlor which overlooked about three or four acres of wildly overgrown fertile land. I did, however, imagine what kind of animals would greet me every morning when I made my daily trek to the horse stable. “Hello Donkey, hello my lovely chickens. Oh, and hello ducks, ready for your walk down to the pond?”

It could be so perfect.

We wandered around for a bit longer, marveling over the tree house built out beyond the mowed area surrounding the house, the woods that cushioned the land on either side, and the sounds of the neighbors, closer than you would suspect, children playing at a short distance, and a buzz saw running from somewhere across the street. Mostly I stood at the front porch and gazed at the view of the fields of wildflowers, gently sloping away and down to where the road could be seen only as a small spot beyond the greenery.

Imagine seeing that first thing every morning. I could.

Eventually we turned back to the truck, ready to head back to the land of the living. Back to our adorable red abode in the city, where the streets are impeccably straight, the neighbors are close enough to ward off intruders at any given moment, and the only land I have to worry about tending to is that small narrow strip that soaks up 8 full hours of sun a day.

I don’t regret not being able to move to my dream home. I go there, in my thoughts, and imagine a time when we are ready to take on such an amazing privilege. Meanwhile, I have everything I could ever need, and can handle.

Some day…