Magnolia Street, Villa Rica

A little over three years ago, when we sold our home in the middle of the Winston countryside, I thought I was going to die from grief. We had virtually put our heart and souls into a gorgeous piece of land in 1996. That's a whole book of stories that can't be pieced together in one column, but suffice it to say, out of necessity we sold our life's dream and began hunting for a new place to live, with the cash-out of 30 years of sweat equity to pay for it with. I have my real estate license, so was able to do my own looking without bothering anybody else. My husband, Ken, and I had a system: I would preview the houses and then drag him around to the ones I found interesting. Thankfully he is a wise man and has usually trusted my instincts.

I put in all the parameters of what we could afford...which was an exercise in restraint. We looked at dozens of homes, scads of them. Nothing really stood out and nothing spoke to us, but we were willing to buy a simple, sound home in order to be at a more peaceful financial place in our lives. Coming up short, I started thinking about where we would like to live, rather than just a dollar sign on the page. So I put in "Villa Rica" as my criteria and began looking through the homes available. I had always liked the small-town feel of Villa Rica. It seemed more peaceful and more hopeful than some of the other towns around us. Up popped this adorable Victorian house, charming and quaint...but out of our price range. I decided to look at it on my day's wanderings. I believe I looked at twelve houses that day and it was the last one. 

I pulled into the driveway behind the house. The yard was as big as two city lots and looked like a park. Two massive pecan trees hovered over the back lot like a set of grandparents pampering their progeny. The house, even the backside of it, was darling from the street. The lockbox was on the back door. I was stunned by the door itself. It was indescribable...a whimsical, sweet confection of stained glass and Renaissance revival carvings. Then my jaw dropped at the star-like light fixture hanging in the laundry room.  The laundry room! Each corner I turned had surprises in store. Inlaid floors, five fireplaces, huge windows that seemed to pull the outdoors in. Stained glass, pocket doors, leaded glass, a massive porch, a sweet wrought-iron gate and fence, woodwork still in its original state, a giant built-in china cabinet in the dining room, and a freshly-renovated lovely kitchen. It even had a little room on the back that I could use for an art studio. The last owner (and probably many other owners) had taken loving care of the house. It was hard to believe a 100+-year-old house could be in this kind of shape. So why wasn't it selling? Besides the fact that God was keeping it for us, the walls were dark and ugly, dated with decades-old wallpaper and colors. Each room had its own color scheme, with no rhyme or reason as to why. There was no flow and it felt cavernous. I have spoken to numerous people who said that they loved this house and wanted to buy it, but they just didn't know what to do with all the clunky colors and walls. How thankful I am that they didn't! Because that's exactly what I (and we) do -- I am a decorative painter and have spent the last 30 or so years buying and selling homes, fixing up, painting them and repainting them. My husband said of one of our houses, that we would be safe from nuclear fallout because of the nine paint jobs that I layered in the master bedroom...in nine years, no less. Now with so many years of practice, it doesn't take me several layers before I know what looks right, fortunately. So this was no problem, in my book. But there was the question of Papa Bear -- what would he think? I had two houses in my mind that would work for us -- this one and a different one in another town (that was smaller, not that old, and a lot simpler). I took him for the next round of house-hunting, showing him several. I said very little about any of them, hoping to get his gut reactions.....and of course, saved the Victorian for last. When he saw the house, it was over. He was in love. I even tried to dissuade him with arguments about the age of it, the upkeep of it, etc., but all he could focus on was that this was to be our Grandparent House (even though we had no grandchildren at the time).

Next problem: the price. Oh yeah, that. We knew exactly how much we would have, after the sale of our other house. And with the downturning of America, the loss of a 23-year-career through downsizing and outsourcing after 9/11, medical bills and the influence of God and Dave Ramsey, we offered what we had left. The homeowner came back willing to owner-finance, which we quickly declined. There were other houses we could buy. We didn't have to have this one, though we really wanted it. But God moved the heart of Pharoah and they took our offer. 

There are many more stories since that day, but I'll hold those for later. Now, every morning we wake up in the sweetest house (that feels like a Bed and Breakfast) and sit on porches that catch the breeze perfectly. We have the best neighbors you could ever hope to have, we walk to town with friends and loved ones and enjoy all the loveliness of our precious town, Villa Rica. Ken says they're going to bury us in the backyard. Best of all, God has sent us four grandchildren in less than eighteen months. We are wearing this place out.