Last year, I bought a little brick bungalow. It faces a lovely park. It’s my dream house. A German immigrant built it in 1936 for his bride. The story goes that he proposed marriage to her. She declined. He built her this treasure box of a house, and she accepted. It’s the house that love built, I like to think.
The family who sold it to me bought it from the German gentleman. Upstairs was a long, gloomy half-remodeled room. It’s essentially an open space with a peaked nook of a room at one end. There were no doors and no storage. But my heart swooned when I first saw it: I immediately saw its potential to be my writing studio.
A year passed. I searched high and low for an affordable contractor who ‘got’ me. Many false starts and building code issues later, the makeover is pretty much done… It was this team that finally made it happen, ultimately saving my sanity. Hats off to you!
For a long time, I’ve nursed this dream of grayish-blue walls, creamy white trim, and soaring walls to lift me up everyday. I can’t believe that it’s come to life, exactly as I envisioned it the first day I toured the house.
It took so long. But I swear, from the moment I stood at the table scavenged from a Going-Out-of-Business sale and banged out this post, my soul gave up a sigh.