When hubby & I got married, we purchased our first house. It was brand new, and was literally everything I thought I wanted...wrap-around porch, painted in exactly the colors I wanted, etc. All except for one thing...I was seriously house poor. We lived there for 2 1/2 years before deciding that we had to get out from under it before we were financially ruined. Before even putting it on the market, a friend of ours decided that he wanted to buy it. It was sold in less than a month.
For the following year, we lived in an apartment with my then two-year old son and my brand new baby. The idiots that lived above us were significantly younger and partied....literally 24 hours a day. I think I called the cops at least once a month the entire time I lived there. When my son came in from the patio one day with a marijuana roach stuck to his sock, I went to the apartment office. They graciously told me that we could move--not the horrible neighbors--US. Not really an option with two little babies. So, I endured it, and continued calling the cops.
During that miserable year, hubby & I started looking at other housing options. We really didn't know what we wanted except for two things: it had to be within our budget and it had to be OUT of the apartment. One day, while driving around with no real purpose, we came across the house that is now ours. It was for sale by owner, it was empty, and the owners happened to be in the yard. It also was a block from where a horrible train wreck had happened six months earlier, causing a huge chlorine explosion and contamination. None of the houses in that area were selling--banks wouldn't finance because they weren't sure what collateral damage to the houses was going to exist due to the train wreck.
We stopped, got out of the car, and asked if we could look at the house. They happily let us look around, but also let us know that it was under contract that expired that upcoming weekend--the couple that was trying to get it was having a hard time with the financing part.
The house is OLD--built in the 1850s and some point and a part of what was then a mill community. It had belonged to the treasurer of the mill when the mill was built. It had the quaint charm of a dollhouse--huge front porch, big back porch, huge open rooms, fireplaces (albeit closed-off ones) in the living room and both bedrooms, a gorgeous staircase. To say that I fell in love would be an understatement. With that being said, it also needed a LOT of work (but that's a story for another post).
The other couple's contract fell through, and we made an offer--a ridiculously low offer for such a huge house. And then we tried to get financing. Like some miracle, it all came through with no problems. You know how sometimes there's these signs that you just know something is right? Well, in addition to being the first people financed for a house in this area after the train wreck, here's my "sign" from God that this house is meant for us....
The previous owner (like I am now) was enamored with the story of the house. It had been first occupied by (we'll call them this, although it's not real because I don't want to give away where I really live) the "Strong" family, and the street had been named after them--"Strong" street. The treasurer father had two grown sons, who both fought in the civil war. While they were at war, they would write letters to their sister. All of the letters had been typed up, along with a picture of the brother who was killed in battle. Both of the brothers are buried in the local cemetery. The packet of letters were given to me the day we closed on the house.
The day we closed, I was so excited to get the letters. Already, I felt some wierd connection to these two fascinating brothers and their family. (I know, wierd.) On the ride home from the closing, I started flipping through the letters, so excited to read all of them and hear the actual words of a Civil War soldier talking to his sister. While flipping, I came across a page that had some of the typed lines underlined, so I stopped out of curiosity. In this particular letter, the brother was telling his sister about this lady--I don't know if he actually knew her or knew of her or what. He was describing her physically, as well as denoting characteristics of her personality. When I read the name of the woman he was describing, Belle Boyd, I knew I recognized the name. I told hubby that, and he looked at me like I was crazy. I kept reading, and then got to the part where he told his sister where she was from...my hometown in WV. My jaw dropped to my lap. I DID know who the woman was!! I had been in her father's house on the House & Garden Tour in my hometown growing up several times.
What are the chances of that?!?! It's not like I'm from Charleston, WV--a big town where it's possible lots of people came from. I'm from a relatively small town. I absolutely could not believe it.
May not seem that crazy to you, but to this day, six years later, it still blows my mind. I know that this house was meant for us, despite all of the stuff we've gone through with it over the years. ..........But I'll save that for another post. :)
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