I bought my first house when I was 24. It was a gorgeous little Craftsman bungalow in the Grant Park neighborhood of Atlanta. At just 984 square feet, it was my tiny sanctuary in the big city. It never felt quite like home, though. It had 3 fireplaces, tiny closets and no insulation. In the winter, my feet froze to the floor and I could see my breath in the air. It was more of a "fixer- upper" than I could handle, so I sold it 18 months later and pocketed a nice profit.
After a few years of renting in the 'burbs, I decided to come back to the city. Rents were high, so I started looking for cheap houses to buy. Once day in the fall of 2009, I saw my house and fell in love. It was a gorgeous day and I pulled up and snapped the below picture.
A beautiful yellow 5 bedroom, 4 bathroom 2-story Colonial Victorian. All I could see was the charm, the porch and the space! 2300 square feet... including a huge 500 square-foot master suite added on to the back of the house. (It's hard to see, but you can just make out the roof line above the top of the fence in the above photo.)
But once I opened the front door, I was shocked back to reality. This gorgeous exterior hid a myriad of issues inside. The entire house was run down and in need of a ton of TLC. I learned it was bank owned and had been vacant for almost 3 years. The house had been on the market for 1.5 years with no offers.
The kitchen drawers were full of business cards from realtors showing the house... along with rusty old razor blades and packets of jello. Standing in the disgusting kitchen, I took out my hand sanitizer because I just felt dirty. Wouldn't you?
The windows were boarded up, the tile floors were cracked, the french doors were boarded shut, the walls were smeared with god knows what. In the upstairs master bedroom, hundreds of eyes were drawn on the walls. That was so creepy, it almost sent me running. The fence and retaining wall had fallen over on one side of the property and the crawlspace was completely full with books, debris, and thousands of cans of paint.
There were dozens - no, HUNDREDS- of problems with this house. Big things like the kitchen and small things like every single closet door was missing. Every room was painted drab, dark colors or crazy neon green and orange. Most people would walk into this house and walk straight back out. But I'm not most people.
I didn't see the problems. I saw the potential.
I saw a gracious southern front porch just begging for a rocking chair.
I saw a 21'x15' living room filled with light from 7 windows!
I thought that if I tore down 2 walls on the main floor, I could create a large open concept kitchen and dining room that opened into the living room.
I knew the very creepy eyes could be painted over and the crazy tile and laminate floors could be replaced.
It never occured to me to run (though maybe it should have). But, I was in love! So, I made an offer that day and closed 2 months later.
We've had a rocky love story, my house and me. In the beginning, I would wander from room to room and feel a crushing sense of dread. "What have I gotten myself into?" I'd ask myself. Every light fixture needed replacing, every outlet was painted over. If I touched something, it broke. Fixtures fell off the ceiling, toilets leaked, one of the sinks only provided hot water, no cold.
The sheer volume of work that needed to be done was so overwhelming I couldn't breathe. In those early days, I'd come to the empty house after work and busy myself until the wee hours, sanding, staining and installing new cabinetry in the kitchen. One night, I sat in the middle of the empty living room and cried. I like to think it was exhaustion, but my house and I know better. I was scared to death.
It sounds silly to say I made a deal with a house that night. But that's what I did. I made a deal that if the house would trust me and give me time, I'd fix it all. Not overnight, mind you, but in time, I'd fix it all. I picked myself off the floor and walked from room to room slowly. It was like I was making peace with the house and with the task at hand. My earlier tears were gone. I was calm. I wrote lists in each room of everything that needed to be done. When I was done, I had 33 pages in my notebook of things to be fixed, updated, repaired, or replaced. So, I got to work crossing items off the list one by one.
I haven't stopped for 3 years. Almost every weekend, this is what you'll find at my house...
When I think back to those early days, I think of how much I've changed, how much I've accomplished in this house, and how much my neighborhood has changed. When I moved in, several houses across the street were boarded up and covered in grafitti. A few others were abandoned. I used to drag my mower across the street every week and mow the lawns of the abandoned houses. I shoo'd my share of homeless people from my backyard and from my neighbors houses and yards.
I've restored my house room by room with love and it looks great. I've spent more time and money than I care to admit. I still have a lot of work ahead of me.
But, occasionally, I look around this house and realize that I brought it back from the brink. Lil' old me!
The best part? I feel like I'm exactly where I belong. I'm home...and madly in love.
Pictures, please!!
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