Weeds. Dust. Peeling paint. Dirt.
Our realtor says we need to refinish the red front door (which is in progress now; along with some new wood for reinforcement after the screen blew off and landed in the front yard after a bad storm). Oh, and scrape the patio, pressure wash, repaint and sand the yellow barn.
Character? Plenty of it.
The red flakes of the door lay heavy on the doormat that my dearest friend Dawn hand-painted for me (a gift that forever reminds me of our wedding day — the day we truly made our house a home). The shed creaks. The porch shows dirt (and Ellie’s shedding hair!). The roof of the tiled birdhouse is popping off … too many cardinals have claimed it theirs to count. There are more weeds choking out the now giant hostas I planted in the secret raised bed four years ago.
The house and garden shows it age. And how long I lived here. (Five years and counting.)
We’re ready to move on, but there are still so many things to do. I should worry that we get a good price for this house… this investment. I worry more that I find the right owner. The right caretaker who loves it as much as we do.
Because it’s not perfect, but it’s perfect for someone.
by Ali
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