Sometimes my life feels like a bunch of missed opportunities. I always want things that I don’t get. Lately I’ve been obsessed with a house just a few blocks from my current one. It is 603 S Michigan Street. People in my neighborhood call it the haunted house because rumor has it that no one has lived in it for over 3 years. I have known this house for awhile. In fact, before I bought my current house, I toured this one with my then husband, Jon. We loved that house. LOVED that house. It had hard wood floors throughout, dark wood accents, large windows, three stories, and tons of charm. It was also stucco, which was really only a bonus to me.
We happened upon it by accident. I had convinced Jon to go for a walk with me, which was no small feat. Typically a walk for Jon meant going about two 3 blocks then asking if we could call a taxi. On this particular day however, Jon allowed me to take him over 6 blocks from our apartment. Newly married, we had been thinking of buying a house. I was set on staying in our current neighborhood. We had decided that day to investigate the local housing market.
And there it was, 603 South Michigan, in all its green/gray stucco glory. As we admired it, a woman emerging from a newly parked car asked, “Are you looking at the house?” Feeling a little strange, we reluctantly admitted we were indeed looking at the house. The next thing we knew, she was ushering us inside to look around. I was in love. Everything about this house was compatible with me. It felt like home. She explained that they were selling it but were also willing to rent to own. The payments were slightly outside what we felt we could afford. For weeks I thought of this house and what it would be like to live there. I thought about how I would decorate the living room, the kitchen, books I would display in the built-in bookcases. We talked and talked about 603 S Michigan. And slowly we began to realize it was out of our reach. Although I was in love, I grudgingly let this house slip from my thoughts.
We eventually found a different house a few blocks north. It wasn’t as nice but there was a yard for a dog and that was enough to sell me on it. It wasn’t until many years later, divorced and still stuck in that house a few blocks north, appropriate for a dog, that I stumbled upon 603 S Michigan again. I was out for a walk one mild winter day and came upon the house I so dearly loved. The memories flooded back. But somehow the house had lost some of its shine. I couldn’t place my finger on it until Sam, my current beau, said, ‘It looks like its being foreclosed on.” As we started to explore the perimeter, we realized it was a pretty likely scenario. I hated to take delight in someone’s misfortune but I practically ran home to begin my research on this house.
I found the current home owners name. I made numerous phones calls to track down any information I could on the house. It was indeed being foreclosed on and the final court date was coming up soon. It felt like fate was pushing me forward. I became obsessed with walking past it any chance I got. I even drove past it on my way home from… everywhere. It wasn’t on my way by any means, but I just wanted to look at it, in the daylight, moonlight, rain, snow, on a cloudy day, a sunny day, at near dusk, etc… I went there with my camera and took pictures from the street. Eventually Sam and I even got so bold as to walk around the yard, up onto the porch, and open storage areas built into the exterior of the house. We peered thru every possible window, assessing the state of the house. Even though there were ceiling tiles broken and disintegrating on the kitchen floor, and the house had clearly not been kept up, I remained in love with it.
It was Sam who seemed less excited. He started making little statements about the condition, the possible problems; issues that would factor into the up keep of such a large house. He would table my obsessive plotting by saying, “You could just take a picture of it and blog about it.” What a ridiculous idea! He asked me questions about how I would feel doing all the work that would need to be done just to move in. The hedge was overgrown and would need to be completely cut down, the water had been disconnected from the house, most likely there was no heat in the building. Bats perhaps had taken up residence in the attic during the 3 years it had stood vacant. Sam asked how I would feel spending all my money fixing up this house. He stressed that I would have to make sacrifices and be realistic about the needs of the house. I just kept thinking of how happy I would be on a Saturday morning, drinking coffee and reading the paper in the open living room with the beautiful built-in book cases. I could picture my dog lying on a rug at my feet, content. Such a peaceful image.
But I knew Sam was right about my tolerance for this project. I hated home ownership. Not in the way people say they hate taking care of things but really they still enjoy them. I hated home ownership, as in I would have been happy if a meteorite fell on my house and destroyed it. I wouldn’t miss replacing broken hot water heaters, dealing with leaking toilets, and fixing foundation cracks. I thought of home ownership as something used to punish naïve newly married people. The smallest problem such as a warped door frame and I would spin out in a childish fit as if the whole house would need to be rebuilt to accommodate a new door.
So I was once again forced to put away my obsession with the green/gray 3 story stucco. I was full of envy that someone else would buy this house, and for a fraction of its value. Someone else would be playing in my yard, drinking coffee in my living room, and happily fixing the broken ceiling tiles in my kitchen. And what was I left with? Just this stupid blog post that says, “I wanted to buy 603 S Michigan but all I got was this crappy photograph.”
