About a year ago, I bullied my way into living in an old farmhouse. It’s owned by the guy my husband farms for part time, and when word that the previous tenants were leaving hit my ears, I jumped at the opportunity. The next time I saw the landlord, I asked if we could move in. With some negotiating and a few remodel projects, patience and deep cleaning, we moved into a two-story brick farmhouse.
It’s massive for its age and a far cry from the two-bedroom basement apartment we were living in downtown. We have a huge yard, flowerbeds, several mature trees and more space than we really know what to do with. I quickly learned how much work it is to keep large spaces clean and, though I don’t miss that basement apartment, I do miss being able to deep-clean the entire thing in 30 minutes. The house is over 100 years old, but it carries a lot of character and a magic that’s hard to describe.
The previous tenants – friends of ours – often told us how much they loved living here. Frankly, when I asked to move in, my motivation was purely to get out of town. I saw the house itself as a perk, but what really sold me was A) large yard, B) fields behind said yard, C) it’s on a farm and D) it’s out of town. The fact that it was aboveground and had more than one bathroom was just a bonus. I remember chatting with our friend about it as we made plans to move in, and he said, “This place is just really special.” I kind of rolled my eyes – how special can a house be?
We worked through the winter to make this place our home – as much as you can when you’re renting. My decor for the tiny apartment did little to fill the space, but we slowly started adding pieces of us to it. My husband is an electrician and went to work updating lights and outlets. I made big plans for springtime. When spring came, I started chomping at the bit to get into the flowerbeds and trim up the bushes. We spent a whole Saturday doing so, and then I spent more than enough money on new flowers, some strawberries and hanging baskets.
The first night it was warm enough to do so, we ate dinner on the back driveway. Our puppy played in the grass; my husband and I sat on lawn chairs and enjoyed the peaceful evening. I had dreamt of nights like this while living in that basement, and happy tears crowded my eyes. A few months later, I was walking in from getting the mail and looked up at the house. The old driveway and sidewalk is cracked and uneven, the white paint on the soffit is chipping, and the red brick could use a pressure wash. The grass, bushes and trees were green and the evening sun shone through the branches, giving the house a golden glow. My hanging baskets slightly swayed in the breeze, and my husband and puppy were running around in the backyard. It was a scene straight from Hollywood – a stereotypical farmhouse. I smiled to myself, remembering our friend's words and adding my own – “This place is magical.”
I have a few friends who own their own home, are building their first house or seem to be further ahead in life than us. This farmhouse has reminded me that everyone has their own timeline, and I am so grateful for ours. We made a lot of memories in that basement apartment and have made countless in this farmhouse. It’s the first time I’ve felt like I’ve had a home since moving out of my parents’ six years ago. There’s something magical about a place like this – where you can feel the families who’ve lived here and know this old house has weathered the toughest of storms.
