In real estate lingo, that's the catch phrase that would describe my house. Built in 1918 during the boom times of WWI it was home to some of those who oversaw the Ferguson Farm operation. As the story goes, Dr. Ferguson made a brazillion bucks selling raincoats for soldiers and purchased the property with his fortune. The only other house on our lane was built around that time as well. My parents live in a log cabin that was originally a hunting lodge for visitors of the family,, circa 1940ish.

Back in the day there was a huge dairy barn that still stands with silos saluting proudly on one end. There were hogs, chickens, cattle and asparagus as a cash crop. Orchards galore. A schoolhouse chock full of children who would rather be out playing by the river than dragging squeaky chalk over their black boards, spelling out their ABCs carefully so that some spinster teacher could pass by and give the work an obligatory glance.

Over our years here as a family, BG and I have often dreamed about the possibilities for such a fine old residence. When she was a teenager all she wanted was a room in the attic complete with a 2nd bathroom. Never happened. Most of her memories were made in the basement where the colored monikers of teenaged love still adorn the steps and walls. Kate loves Josh! Addie was here :) Melissa. Jon. Woody, et al. What was I thinking????????? My most vivid basement memory is the time when Chris M smacked his forehead wide open when he ran up the stairs and failed to duck. His bad. Lots of blood. Yet he's alive and well to this day. Just call me mother-of the-year, umkay?

We have paint and tile on the walls and nice flooring on the main level. The few tedious details that remain are not essential, but will get done eventually when the spirit moves. And it will, as it always does.

^j^