Old-House Love Is Blind

By Gretchen Roberts

	Illustration Courtesy of Barbara Quinn

When my future husband, Derek, gave me a ring, we'd only been dating for four months. Less than a year later we married, reveling in the dizziness of falling in love and committing to a relationship we knew would survive the long haul. Buying our first home was a repeat of that whirlwind romance. On New Year's weekend we began looking at houses; we closed on a place before the end of January.

After five years of rentalsÑnever unpacking all the candles or hanging up picturesÑmy husband and I were finally ready to take on the role of homeowners. We were moving to Knoxville, Tennessee, for Derek's first job after graduate school.

At first, I was convinced that a one-storey ranch was the house for us: simple and functional. But after walking through several houses that had even less personality than their repetitive subdivisions, we realized we wanted something more, well, distinctive.

We found it in a circa 1900 bungalow. The first thing about the house that made my heart flutter was the thick archway between the living and dining rooms. Gazing at its lovely curves was like looking into my husband's deep blue eyes for the first time. I knew instantly that this would be our house, in the same way that I had known I would marry Derek.

The house had gone through various stages of ickiness, as a neighbor described it, before being purchased by an investor. With an eye for profit and a quick sale, he had put in just enough work to make the house appear in much better shape than it really wasÑjust as I had wriggled into cute, uncomfortable clothes and applied lipstick for my early dates with Derek, only to revert to Chapstick and sweats once our relationship grew comfortable.

Still, behind the sloppily laid stair carpeting and hastily hung drywall, the house's true self could be seen. The living room fireplace, which had been blocked up for years, had a black marble hearth that you would never find in today's houses. A built-in dining room china cabinet was tailor-made to hold my wineglasses and vases.

This house made our hearts pump, our palms perspire, and our stomachs quiver with butterflies. The house wasn't practical as it was too big for our family of three and contained spaces so odd we couldn't imagine what to do with them. Several insurance companies nearly hung up on me when I called for a policy estimate. It's just too old, one agent said. (Funny, no one objected to our marriage on the grounds that Derek and I would deteriorate over time.)

Still, we were undeterred. One word, character, kept recurring in my head. Sure, the house had some blemishes, but more importantly, it had character, which is the one quality you appreciate over time. Derek and I drew a breath, took the plunge, signed some papers, and had a lovely honeymoon, getting to know each and every crevice of our new home.

Then the trivialities of everyday existence set in, just as they had after my marriage, when I discovered that my otherwise wonderful husband had lost his cooking skills along with his ability to put clothes away. In our new home, the water heater suddenly died, and a plumber delivered the bad news that the roots from the venerable trees on our property had invaded our ancient sewer line. Derek and I tried to hide our disappointment from each other. We still loved the house and were committed to it, but we felt deceived after discovering its hidden deficiencies, even as we melted under its charms. Just like our marriage, we're committed to staying here until death do us part because this house, our home, is that special one for us.

So what if the water runs all over the tilted counter when I wash dishes, doorknobs tend to fall off of their stripped spindles, and cheap linoleum covers what I suspect to be a hardwood floor in the kitchen? Even with all its quirks, we still have the most beautiful house that we've ever seen, from the wainscoting in the living and dining rooms to the many-paneled windows that throw a patchwork of daylight across the walls. I admit that when I'm driving down the street, I sometimes sneak looks at other houses, but I'd never take them seriously. I only have eyes for our place.

Gretchen Roberts writes about food, homes, and gardens from Knoxville, Tennessee.


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