Which one did she choose?

My Vermont house hunt, "Episode 2." Not as brave as I think I am.

God help me. I'm writing a memoir. About once a month, I'll share some of the work-in-progress in Amid Life—early drafts, research, and scenes that may or may not make the final cut.

In a new relationship, peri-menopausal and restless—I bought an old Vermont farmhouse. Five years later, I hired a "life wizard," and the following year, I left a 30-year marketing career. Is it really "never too late" to be what I might have been? At 56, it was time to find out.

---

Previously on House Hunters, Vermont— Felix and I toured and rejected more than a dozen properties, before I found my dream house. That's right, I said my not our, I was adamant about my independence. Our relationship was relatively new, but it was more than that. I wanted to be a brave, capable woman who fearlessly pursued her dream.

"It began to feel like one of those journeys one takes in a dream, a journey that has no end,
in search of something that can never be found, where if one wakes at last,
it is to the accelerated heartbeat of terror."

—May Sarton, Plant Dreaming Deep

At the real estate closing, I shook hands with the seller, who shrugged when I asked about the keys. "Never had 'em," he said. "No need."

That night, I inflated an air mattress in the empty living room as proof of my determination. I wasn't afraid. Why, then, twenty minutes later, had I checked into a room at the local Comfort Inn?

Vermont dream house v. reality

The real estate listing described an old-fashioned, quintessential Vermont Farmhouse built in 1813, with three acres surrounded by open land, hillside views, and a gorgeous stone wall. Whatever the reality of its condition, I was blinded to it the moment we turned down the dirt road.

2012 - Real Estate Listing Photo

The property was described as being three miles "off-pavement." It wouldn't be until the following spring—a.k.a. mud season—that we would learn the term's implications. Still, it wouldn't have mattered.

"Can you imagine?" I asked Felix as we drove along the dirt road lined with hay fields, and horse paddocks, and views of New Hampshire's White Mountains. As if that wasn't enough to rose-color my sunglasses, we passed over a covered bridge and found the house cradled in a steep meadow dotted with black and white cows.

It was everything I'd envisioned—white clapboards, the promised stone walls, and an old barn. As we walked through the yard with the realtor, I saw gardens (not the tangle of overgrown weeds) and chickens (not the fenced-in dog yard littered with turds). While Felix worried about the barn's precarious lean, I might have squealed, "Goats!"

In truth, what had seemed like clapboards from the photo were actually rusting metal siding, and the barn wasn't much more than a pile of moldering trash, broken windows, precarious rotting floors, and wood beams sculpted with piles of bat and squirrel shit.

Inside the house, there were just enough traces of original charm—wooden door knobs, rosette plinth blocks, and eight-over-eight wavy glass windows—to distract me from the failing roof, janky fireplaces, and eye-watering ammonia scent of mouse urine.

I'd seen enough HGTV (too much) to easily (too easily) re-imagine the detritus into reclaimed and upcycled treasures—forgetting my lack of time, budget, or skill for such endeavors. Blinded by potential, I was ready to commit.

A month later, after signing the papers, I opened the never-locked door, hopeful the cleaning crew I'd hired would have left behind a fresh and clean. The floors and windows were clean, the cobwebs swept away, but the mice stench remained.

I opened all the windows and spent the afternoon measuring and making plans.

Kitchen (?) and dining area on the day I took possession

I'll put the dining table here by the south-facing windows. The June sunlight filled the space and warmed the splintering pine floor under my feet. This is where I will gather my children and their future partners and the juicy babies they will make. I will set places for as many hearts and sticky faces with sweet potato breath as the space would hold.

There was no kitchen, only a sink and a makeshift plywood counter, but I could see the future. My kitchen would be the center of gravity, a protostar for the next generation and the next. We'll lay out the Sunday funnies on a table polished with Lemon Pledge every Saturday morning. Leave traces of long division from a pencil pressed too hard on its knotty pine surface. Eat pancakes for supper.

What have I done?

The first supper in my dream house, was a sandwich and a beer from the cooler, eaten alone on the front steps. Cars slowed as they passed, lifted a hand above the steering wheel to wave, and stared a moment too long. Who is she?

The shadows grew long, and the quiet was astonishing. I could hear the cows in the neighbor's pasture tearing at clumps of clover and swishing their tails. An old power pole stood like a cross at the top of the hill behind the house.

The old utility pole on the hill seemed to ask, “What have you done?”

Though the doors lacked keys, the locks worked from the inside. I wiggled the door knobs to be sure and called Felix to say goodnight. He'd be up tomorrow after work with his tools. "I'm bringing a big hammer," he said. His deep, happy voice was a comfort. Throughout the house hunt, his support had been as steady as a hand on the small of my back while crossing a busy street.

I turned out the light. The air mattress squeaked as I shifted to get comfortable. The darkness was surprising—no streetlights, only a faint glow from the porchlight up the road. And no sound, except—

Ticca-ticca-ticca-ticca—unmistakably tiny toenails across the wooden floor. Coming toward me!

"No. No, no, NO!"

In one motion, I was out of my sleeping bag, off the rubbery mattress, and into my jeans and sweatshirt. I hit the wall light switch on the way up and slid into my shoes while grabbing the phone from the floor next to the outlet. My keys, my bag. The door slam. Head lights on a midnight black road.

Who is she? Indeed. What has she done?

The chain-hotel room was familiar. So was the feeling of failure, the self-flagellation. Why wasn't I brave enough to sleep in the house I'd dreamt of since I was little? The home I'd always wanted. The place I'd worked so hard to reach. Why couldn't I stay one night under the roof I'd just taken out a mortgage to buy?

I tossed and turned. The whir of the air conditioner, too loud. The sodium glare of parking lot lights, too bright. I thought about telling this story to Felix—how he'd laugh then say, "Aw, come here,” when I failed to see the humor.

I thought of my jewel box of a house on the hill under the velvet night and Milky Way sparkle. Damaged and tired but resilient—like me. And yet…Even without keys or solid support beams, the house felt steady and secure—the way I longed to be.

I’ll try again tomorrow, I thought, swallowing the bruising self-talk and pulling the covers over my head. As I wriggled one foot out to moderate my ever-changing body temperature, I gasped.

I hoped I hadn't locked the door.

2024. Felix repaired the barn, but the projects are endless (hence the ladder). Still, we find time to marvel at the night sky.

Work hard. Be brave. Believe.

Catherine

ICYMI: Here's a round-up of some earlier sneak peeks from my memoir-in-progress.