Do people write love letters to houses? No? Well, they should.
Pancake and I have decided to list our 1923 farmhouse. Our first home. The fixer-upper we bought in as-is condition. The beater that happened to be in a great school district, in a great neighborhood, on a great street, with great neighbors. It was the best location we could afford, and the house had just enough old charm left in it to keep it out of a landfill.
The wood floors were damaged, the original metal cabinets were falling off the hinges, the windows did little to keep the elements out, the porch was falling apart, the only functional bathroom wasn’t actually all that functional, the electrical system had been cobbled together over years of patchwork, the yard was overgrown due to decades of neglect, and on, and on, and on. It was a mess. But it was our mess, and we were incredibly proud.
There were many changes over the next 6 years, both for us and our old farmhouse. We ended up remodeling nearly every inch our home, both inside and out.
We spent dozens of hours pulling staples from the old linoleum floors in the kitchen so we could salvage the wood underneath, just to find out that the wood was actually too damaged to salvage. We cleared the front yard of the overgrowth, removed a chain link fence, planted sod and an autumn cherry tree. We replaced the windows, added central air, finished the basement and attic, and designed and built countless custom moments throughout our home. It was a labor of love.
And during our years in our farmhouse there were two more labors of love (see what I did there? I’m hilarious).
We will be heartbroken to leave our home; to leave the living room where Stinky Face and Monkey took their first steps in nearly identical spots; or the nursery Pancake and I spent so many sleepless nights; or the basement where we keep our height chart that Monkey has yet to make it on.
We’ve loved you old farmhouse, but it’s time for us to move on. I hope your next family appreciates you as much as we have.
Bye for now,