I bought my house in October of 1990. I had lived a year in Columbus in a rental duplex, and wanted something permanent. I planned to stay here awhile. It was a good investment and a tax write off for the interest. So I sifted through many choices and decided on the one I’m still in.
But you need to know a little about me as a person. I’m the shapeshifter, the chameleon, the effervescent spirit that comes and goes with your dreams. I am the hippie, the loner, the floater, the non-conformist, the rebel, the starving artist. None of these persona are supposed to own homes.
But, good sense and the pressures of well meaning society along with parents, and my own desire to belong, to solidify, nudged me along the acceptable and responsible path of buying a house to own, cherish and love, for ever.
While I looked, I struggled with the decision, agonized, labored, floundered, waffled and waffled. I might as well have taken a butter and syrup bath for all the waffling I did. I had migraines for days during this time. I hated it.
But I reduced my desires to a list of requirements. The house I bought had to have: a porch, a circular flow pattern on the first floor, double French doors to the street on the fist floor, a sun room on the sunny side, a decent garden, a wood burning fireplace and not to many updates needed (move in condition). At least I knew the area I wanted to live in: an old, 1920’s suburb where many OSU professors and several musicians lived.
I had all but given up, and I’m sure my Realtor was about to make me disappear. I was seriously afraid he’d pop while I looked at and rejected yet another house. (my mother was a Realtor and I now understand why she hated it at times)
One house appealed to me, at least from the street. I had driven by it several times, and loved the setting. Tucked among many trees, you could barely see the house. It had a third floor dormer window which made it look bigger than it’s 2 floor size. The cedar shake shingles and boxy shape gave it cottage charm. And the yard was beautifully landscaped with soft curvy lines.
I decided to walk in one day during an open house, without my Realtor. It had double French doors over looking the front porch facing the street. There was a wood burning fireplace, and the circular floor pattern I wanted. The kitchen was good sized, with a breakfast nook over looking the back yard, which was not so nicely landscaped. The second floor had the usual three bedrooms, a decent sized bathroom, and a sunroom off the bath, with three sides of glass facing South. I fell in love.
I called my Realtor, who commanded me not to breathe until he got there. (the Realtor who had the open house would have been happy to sell it to me) Over the next 48 hours I bargained them down 12% from their asking price. The house was mine!
That was 15 years ago. Now, a hundred thousand in renovations and additions later, plus thousands (really, I think it’s true) of hours gardening later, the house is all me.
Or is it?
