Home at Last
by Christine Mosley

We have lots of plans, my husband and I.

"Are you awake?" (1:34 am)

"Of course."       (1:35 am)

"So what do you think about..."

That discourse has taken place more times than I can remember during our twelve year marriage. Back and forth the volleying goes until one of us starts to snore, yet it doesn't end there. Next morning we start in right where we left off. But the one fateful conversation I recall quite well involved a run-down piece of real estate in the heart of Rhinebeck Village.

April, 2005: We sell our Rhinebeck Bed and Breakfast and buy a ranch house in Red Hook. Not a first choice property for us, but it was available, reasonably priced, and the perfect makeover candidate for an arts and crafts re-do. The ink wasn't dry on that purchase offer document, however, when that previously mentioned, rundown piece of real estate went on the market. It had a special appeal to us because, unlike our 20th century ranch, this house was the 19th century dollhouse, on Chestnut Street, we had always admired.

"Are you awake?" (3:05 am)

"Of course."

Silence. (3:07 am)

"You think we're nuts to buy that old house, don't you?"

"Of course."

"But you know, we could do so much with it."

"I know."

"And then we could flip it and make a little money."

"You're right."

Silence. (3:08 am)

"So let's make an offer on it and see what happens."

August, 2005: After three months of delays (which some may have seen as an omen) we finally close on the little house. Despite the price we paid for it, we knew absolutely, positively and without a doubt we would transform this woefully neglected Victorian cottage into one of the loveliest residences in the village. And then we would put it back on the market and make some money. Sounded like a plan...

September, 2005: Three weeks of 12 hour days begins to make an appreciable difference in the little house. The almost uninhabitable kitchen is gutted and completely redone; electrical upgrade, appliances, cabinets, the works. We pry out layers of linoleum with crowbars and find the original wide-board pine floors that are evident throughout the rest of the house. Work continues on a new first floor half-bath, along with a complete overhaul of the existing upstairs bath, into which a laundry area will be incorporated. All the galvanized pipes in the house have to be removed, which my husband does, to make way for the new water and sewer lines. Paint colors are chosen for the outside of the house, making sure they are compatible with its age and Italianate style. The dirt driveway gets brick pavers as does a new front walk, and the lawn, once a parking lot for abandoned cars, begins to sprout grass for the first time in years. And each night, as we pack up and head home to our ranch house, I tell myself what a great little house some lucky person will get when we finally put it on the market.

October, 2005: Near the end of the month, with our much-anticipated open house looming, we struggle to complete what seems an almost insurmountable task. My husband loses his strength and ambition as his Lyme disease symptoms return. Dormant for the last few years, the disease kicks back up again thanks to months of backbreaking work. With family and friends pitching in to help, the last of the endless chores are finished and with Halloween's arrival comes the For Sale sign on the front lawn. There's just one small issue left to deal with, though. The real estate market is starting a steady downward spiral and our nightmare is about to begin.

Christmas, 2005: Our renovated ranch house has its fireplace glowing and its Christmas tree sparkling, and the family makes the best of a lovely house that just doesn't feel the way it should. My New Year's resolution is to make a greater effort to call this house home, and learn to love it, if I can. Still, whenever I go to Rhinebeck, I drive down Chestnut Street, past the little house with the For Sale sign in front of it and tell myself what a great little house some lucky person will get when it finally sells.

August, 2006: "Are you still awake?"

"Sure am." (12:31 am)

"So the buyer wants what?"

"He wants a full inspection before he even makes an offer." (12:33 am)

"And you know he'll offer us nothing for it just like the two other offers we've had." (12:36 am)

"What are we going to do?"

September, 2006: No one seems to want the little house. After nine months and three half-hearted offers, we have very few options left, so we decide to follow our hearts this time around. We sell the ranch house, pack up once again, and finally remove the For Sale sign in front of the little house.

October, 2006: The trick-or-treaters come in droves this year, just like they always have on Chestnut Street. My husband and I sit on the front porch handing out candy by the bucket and wave to neighbors, taking in the sights and sounds of a beautiful, warm autumn night. Our next door neighbor comes by and says she thought we had sold the house because the sign was down. No, we told her, we never did sell the house. We were the lucky ones after all.

"Why are you still awake?" (2:05 am)

"Because I can't believe how things worked out. All those months of waiting . . ." "But we're here now, and that's all that matters." (2:06 am)

"And I couldn't be happier."

We have lots of plans, my husband and I. The best one, however, was the one that didn't work, the investment blunder that took us nine months to figure out. The winding path to home is finally ended, and we look forward to enjoying our little house right here on Chestnut Street.