Our kind and patient realtor probably thought we were a little crazy when we asked her to help us buy this house. It's old, worn, and needs a lot of work. But we loved it immediately. This place started as a two room farmhouse at some point in the late 1800s. In the 1940s they added the rest of the rooms, including a second floor loft with ceilings just over six feet high. Then in the 70s, when the acreage around it was to become Jordan Lake, the whole house was picked up and moved to its current location. As the story goes, it was a rainy, muddy day when the truck brought the house here and it pulled up with the house parallel to the road. Instead of waiting for conditions to dry up and the house to be properly oriented, the owners just set it down and the house has been crooked every since.
When I first stepped through the door two years ago, I was struck by a comforting, familiar smell that felt like home. Logically, I know that the smell is most likely dust or mildew, but at that moment it smelled exactly like my great-aunt's pantry and I was reminded of summers in rural South Carolina. The whole house is wooden floors, wooden walls, wooden ceilings. To my husband the sculptor and carpenter, he sees this house as his lifelong work of art. Almost every weekend he's at the hardware store early in the morning to get whatever he needs for his current project. Last year, he replaced one of our aging exterior doors and discovered that the framing had been made with a rough-hewn piece of pine and handmade nails. I wonder about the people who built this house almost 150 years ago, who sat in the room I am sitting in now. Sometimes, on the second floor, the lights will flicker or music will turn on or off by itself. I like to think there's a ghost living up there, one of the original owners of this house. I'd like to think that they are proud of what this little place has become and all the love that has been put into it and that will continue to pour in.