The House With Too Many Footnotes

Sometimes the stories we tell ourselves are far more interesting than reality.

Sometimes they’re also completely ridiculous.

This is a story about a house, a wonderfully honest neighbor… and the full-length disaster movie my brain managed to produce before we’d even finished the tour.

Memory soundtrack: Life During War Time

Because apparently my imagination thought we were preparing for the apocalypse.

House hunting has taught me something I wasn’t expecting.

You don’t fall in love with a house.

You fall in love with the life you imagine living inside it.

Sometimes those two things are exactly the same.

Sometimes… they’re not even close.

There’s a dangerous moment that happens when you’re looking at houses.

It has nothing to do with inspections or appraisals.

It happens the instant your imagination decides you’ve already moved in.

Before you’ve even opened the front door, you’ve figured out where the Christmas tree will go. You’ve picked out the corner for your favorite chair. You’ve watched your dog sprint across a backyard that still belongs to someone else.

By the time reality catches up, you’ve already started living there.

This house had me before we even parked.

When Tracy and I first started talking about moving to the Olympic Peninsula, I pictured twenty wooded acres. Trails winding through the trees. A little creek somewhere. Jax disappearing into the brush only to come bounding back with that goofy grin dogs have when they’ve found something they absolutely shouldn’t have.

Then reality started negotiating.

Twenty acres became ten.

Ten became five.

Eventually we found ourselves saying, “Honestly… a quiet quarter acre would probably be enough.”

Funny how dreams negotiate.

This place felt close enough.

The driveway curved through the trees just enough to hide the house from the road. There was a detached garage. A little covered porch. Plenty of shade. The kind of place where mornings seemed like they’d arrive slowly instead of all at once.

I was mentally deciding where to put my smoker when the neighbor wandered over.

He looked like he’d stepped out of an unaired season of Duck Dynasty. Long beard. Ball cap. Sun-weathered face. The kind of man who probably owned three chainsaws, none of which had ever seen the inside of a garage.

His wife joined him a minute later with the kind of smile that instantly lowers your blood pressure.

Within minutes we’d heard stories about elderly neighbors he’d helped over the years.

One needed a deck repaired.

Another needed a tree cut down.

Someone couldn’t afford to haul away an old trailer.

Every story ended the same way.

“I didn’t charge ’em much.”

Listening to him reminded me of my dad.

Different man.

Same instinct.

If somebody needed help, you helped.

I liked him immediately.

Which is why what happened next was so funny.

He pointed past his property toward the larger parcel behind the house.

“The old fellow back there moved and gave the property to his son.”

I nodded.

“The son had it surveyed.”

Still nodding.

Then he pointed toward the gravel we’d just driven across.

“Looks like they’re probably going to end up taking about half this driveway.”

…

I’m sorry…

The driveway I just fell in love with?

Apparently I’d entered the property through a temporary relationship.

Then he pointed toward the trees.

“See that drop-off?”

I hadn’t.

Now I did.

“There’s kind of a homeless camp down there.”

Before my brain could even file that information, he pointed the other direction.

“They built a mill over there a couple months ago.”

He shrugged.

“They’ve actually been pretty good.”

Hope returned.

“They only run seven days a week.”

Hope quietly packed a suitcase.

Then, with complete sincerity, he smiled.

“But they kind of cleaned up the homeless camp.”

At that exact moment, my imagination politely excused itself from the conversation.

It returned thirty seconds later with a full production budget.

The ravine wasn’t a ravine anymore.

It was where the zombies came from.

Not sprinting zombies.

Pacific Northwest zombies.

They were in no hurry.

They’d eventually make it to the house… probably after stopping for coffee.

The mill whistle became the soundtrack to the apocalypse.

County surveyors marched toward my driveway carrying orange stakes like Roman soldiers claiming new territory.

Bulldozers idled in the distance.

Property lines shifted by the minute.

And standing between us and complete societal collapse…

…was this wonderfully kind man who reminded me of my dad.

Only now he’d become something else.

Duck Dynasty, Defender of Easements.

Guardian of the Driveway.

Protector of Property Lines.

I could practically see him roaring into battle on an ATV.

“I GOT CHILI IN THE CROCKPOT!”

“THIS ISN’T THE TIME FOR CHILI!”

“IT’S ALWAYS TIME FOR CHILI!”

Meanwhile his wife calmly handed cookies to first responders while somehow keeping everyone emotionally regulated.

The realtor smiled.

“The sellers are highly motivated.”

Lady…

I’m highly motivated too.

To leave.

The funny thing is, none of that was actually happening.

A genuinely kind man was simply trying to make sure two strangers understood the neighborhood before making one of the biggest purchases of their lives.

He wasn’t trying to talk us out of buying the house.

He was treating us like future neighbors instead of potential buyers.

On the drive home, Tracy looked over.

“They were really nice.”

“They were.”

“I’d actually like to know them.”

“So would I.”

She smiled.

“But…”

I laughed.

“I think they’d make incredible friends.”

“Not neighbors?”

“I think the best part about friends is that you get to decide when to visit.”

She laughed.

I laughed.

Mostly because the zombies had finally gone home.

Buying a house is strange.

You think you’re shopping for bedrooms and bathrooms.

You’re not.

You’re buying Saturday mornings.

The guy next door.

The noise you can’t hear during a showing.

The conversations that happen after the realtor gets back in her car.

You’re buying stories that began years before you arrived and will keep unfolding long after you’re gone.

The listing tells you about square footage.

Life happens in the footnotes.

And every once in a while, you’re lucky enough to meet someone kind enough to read those footnotes out loud before you sign.

The older I get, the more I appreciate people who tell you the truth before you have to discover it yourself.

That neighbor probably saved us from buying the wrong house.

Whether he knows it or not…

I’m grateful we met him.

Bent but True.

I’m also trying something new in Chat: The Weekly Signal.

One question. No pressure. Just a small place to check in between stories.

Come answer if you feel like leaving a little static in the room.