House Hunter

With nineteen moves in my lifetime, house hunting is the only consistent career I’ve held. A consequence of my many moves is I have developed a house hunting addiction. To this day my heart races at the sight of an “Open House” sign and I tremble with anticipation at the release of the newest edition of Homefinder magazine. House hunting in North Carolina lasted for over a year, partially because my husband and I differed vastly in our expectations and partially because I adore my real estate agent, Waban, and I wanted to prolong our search as long as possible.

For months I ran the gamut of potential houses that I drug Waban through – 50’s ranches, 90’s McMansions, 70’s split levels, small towns, metropolises, country with acreage, country without acreage, fixer-uppers, historic, modern, short sales, foreclosures – you name it, we saw it. My search criteria were simple - a first-floor master and a screened porch; everything else was wide open. You would think this would simplify the search, but, like a poorly formulated thesis statement, my topic was too broad. Once a week I sent Waban a list of potentials, he’d revise the list and map out the best route to hit as many houses as possible. We traveled throughout Guilford and Alamance Counties, and occasionally ventured into surrounding counties, searching for the perfect “forever” home where our family could finally settle down.

On one of our house hunting days, we pulled out of an upscale subdivision in Northern Guilford County onto a narrow, country road. I had started the day certain that a new house was the best choice, but lost my enthusiasm when I realized I couldn’t distinguish one new house from the next. Beyond the entrance of the subdivision sat a ramshackle split-level with three beautiful elms that I had not noticed earlier. The elm’s branches stretched high above the house, creating a canopy that cooled the humid summer afternoon. A “For Sale” sign sat at the property’s edge.

“Ooh,” I squealed. Poor Waban wordlessly pulled into the driveway and reached for his cell phone. He was never certain what struck my fancy on our house hunting journeys, but he knew from the sound of my squeal, there was no use questioning. While my daughter, Jessica, and I circled the house, Waban got the entry code from the listing agent and we were soon crossing the threshold of our unplanned stop. Despite the high 90s temperatures outside, a blast of cool air greeted us as we entered.

The home was newly listed the day before by the executor’s of the estate. The interior was already cleared and our footsteps echoed across the bare linoleum. Sooty brown paneling covered every wall. Hollow core doors and divider walls built of pressed wood and paneling split the home into three apartments. A crooked opening was cut through one wall to create a pass-through from one apartment to another as if someone or something had been trapped in the small apartment and needed to cut their way out. Only one section of the house benefited from a full kitchen. The other two areas boasted a free-standing small sink, a dorm fridge, a microwave, and an ancient window unit air conditioner. It was the first time neither Waban nor I could mutter the words “It has potential.”

We had both decided this house was not an option, but no respectable house hunter addict or real estate agent would leave a house without the full tour. Jessica obediently followed us from room to room looking to fill her own criteria checklist – a secret room, a swimming pool, and space for a pony. Waban came to a solid six-panel wood door original to the 40-year old structure and tugged it open to reveal a dark narrow staircase to the basement.

“Who’s there? What do you want?” A gruff male voice grumbled from below.

“I’m sorry, sir. We were told the house was empty. We…” Waban stopped at the bottom of the stairs and turned around with a confused look on his face. I followed him down the staircase to see what was wrong. The basement was completely empty. Waban shifted awkwardly and a rogue nail skittered across the industrial tiles, the sound echoing off the bare cement walls. “You heard that, right? I coulda’ swore…” Waban shook his head from side to side trying to grasp the situation, all the while nudging me back up the stairs.

As we reached the top of the stairs, Jessica popped into the doorway. Waban and I both jumped in surprise, grabbing the handrail to keep us from tumbling back down. “What’s down there?” she asked.

“Nothing.” Waban pushed us through the doorway and firmly closed the door. “We need to go.”

Jessica headed to the front door ready to return to her videos and the air conditioned car. The house had turned oppressively hot. None of the window air conditioning units were on. Before we reached the front door, Waban was distracted by another six-panel wood door. Ever the real estate agent, he couldn’t resist. “Is this a coat closet?” Before I could stop him, he pulled the door open to reveal another staircase. We had completely forgotten that the house had a second story.

“Do you want to go up?” We both stood in the doorway, peering around the corner of the jamb at the steep incline. At that moment the snap-crackle of a match lighting sounded in the mere inches between us followed by the distinct, slightly sweet smell of the first puff on a cigarette. Neither of us smoked. Without a word we high-tailed it to the car and were a mile down the road before either of us spoke.

Six months later my husband joined the house search. In two days, Waban showed him six houses and my husband put an offer on a house without a screen porch or room for a pony. Now where’s the fun in that?