This old house

ain't just any old house. It's the one we looked at two years ago. Our eyes saw the red shingles, the covered porch, the sweet little barn, the big back garden. And then our eyes adjusted to what lay inside.

It wasn't perfect. Actually, it was a project waiting to happen. But it didn't happen, at least not then.

Last March, L and I returned to Liverpool to house hunt. There we were again looking at that lovely red house with its covered porch. There we were again stepping inside. We both forgot how small it was and how much work we would need to do. Yet, we were still drawn to it.

Offer made. Offer accepted. Suddenly, it was closing day. Even more suddenly, we were following Halifax traffic over the bridge to Dartmouth to get our U-Haul. We ate Chinese food because all our dishes were packed. We loaded the trolley again and again and again until our luxury apartment was almost empty. The tile floor and white walls were bare. The only thing left was the echo of emptiness.

So southwest we went. A couple of hours later we pulled into the driveway of our house. Since it had closed a month earlier, we'd gotten a fair bit done. That fair bit was a blip on the map of what still needed doing.

For two years we'd wanted that house. Even after walking through the back door half a dozen times and being reminded of how much work lay ahead, our want didn't wane. And it still hasn't.