Saturday, January 21, 2017


Dear Olive,

Our street is one of the last brick roads in our town.  At the end of our road is a culdesac of two houses that look straight out of a Thomas Kinkade painting.  These homes, deemed "the cottages" by our family, are accessible down a narrow cobble stone drive and are nestled in a ravine flanked by trees.  There is a narrow brook circling the left-hand cottage, which my kids call, "the Snow White Cottage."  I've always coveted these homes.  I amble down the path often when walking alone after the kid's bedtime.

My fancy for these structures is so widely known that last week I received a call from a friend who is a relator alerting me that one of the cottages was going up for auction.

I swiftly did an acquaintanceship scan and plotted who I could solicit to be my neighbor with the secret agenda of designing the home's interior.  A mere day later, my lovely friend Amanda and I set out for a showing of the home.

"You'll be Miss Honey in Matilda," I cooed!  "You'll live in a fairy tale!"

We entered the house through crumbling stone stairs and a cracked hobbit door to an estate full of structural and aesthetic problems.  But all I could see was the potential.  Cupboards and nooks, and crannies, and character, I was falling hard.

A few days later, Amanda brought her mom to see the property.   Jason, the kids and I met her there.  The kids created chaos by hiding in all of the cupboards and trying to eat all of the lead paint.  Jason held my hand and listened to me gush.

Lying in bed that night, Jason listened to me wax poetic about the potential of the cottage.  By that time, Amanda's mother had  wisely talked her out of buying it, which any good mother would do.

"You want to buy it, don't you?"  He asked.

"Well, no"... I stammered.  "That wouldn't be very wise.  I mean, it would be amazing,"  I continued.  "We could rent it out while we fixed up the upstairs.  When my parents get older, they could move in so I could take care of them.  That would make me so happy."

"You know, we could probably swing it," He reasoned.

"Hmmm," I mumbled to sleep.  "Wouldn't that be lovely."

That night I had a dream that I found a fortune of war bonds in a purse that had been passed down to me by my grandmother.

Before I awoke, we promptly bought the house.

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