So at this point, now that I've calmed down (thanks in no small part to this tasty glass of wine), I feel like it's important for you to know a little more of the backstory of home buying process. Really, I just need to get this off my chest.
Back in December, I signed up for a common foreclosure service so I could scout out interesting bank-owned properties and wait for them to hit the market. I would see a few every day, think, "Oh that's cute," then quickly file away the thoughts into the other 249081 homes I had scouted. That is, until I found CALVIN. (I say that with a serious swoon of course). 1209 Calvin Ave was a rather sizable Victorian in the insanely desirable neighborhood of Lockeland Springs (one of Nashville's oldest and most strangely beautiful), and he was perfect.
Unfortunately, he wasn't on the market. So, in late January when I received at work an email with his photo from my realtor that said he'd just been listed, I wasted no time excusing myself from the pharmacy to not-so-calmly yell my excitement into the phone. I met her that evening after work with Todd, and it was love at second first sight (or second, considering my prior stalking). Calvin had broken plaster. He had beat up old wood floors and a marvelously awkward floor plan. He had a dark, dingy stairwell and sky high ceilings. Stately fireplaces, closed off rooms, and a crumbling space where the kitchen once stood. He was so perfectly historic and gorgeous and I wanted nothing else but to make him mine. I was in love.
So we put in an offer. And so did 8 other people in the first few hours. And we waited. And we offered again - highest and best. I was set. I was so blinded by love that I thought if I just loved Calvin enough he would be mine, nevermind the other people, nevermind the fact that he's a goldmine. I wanted Calvin for his character, for his awkward and charming personality. I wanted Calvin for the dead man buried in the backyard (marked by a large and leaning tombstone). That was my dead guy, I thought, he would be my ghost, my friend. He, and me, and Calvin.
But some people wanted Calvin for the money. Some people didn't want Calvin for Calvin. They wanted his name, his location. When we started our offer battle, we were told the property was being sold as a Fannie Mae HomePath property so by regulations, investors were out. Just me and Calvin and some other normal folks, I thought. I told myself, nobody wants Calvin enough to beat my price, nobody understands him that much. But what investors understand is money. And loopholes.
I know that because today I saw Calvin back on the market, a mere five months down the road and $350,000 up in cost. But he's not my Calvin anymore. He's been stripped and torn up, modified to the point of no return. They moved the dingy stairwell. They ripped out the towering mirrored mantels and replaced them with this cheesy fake stone. They opened all the rooms but didn't even bother to put in matching trim along the new openings. He doesn't even look like the same house. What was once one-hundred and twenty years of history has been wiped clean and made cheap, made generic and unimaginative.
(I mean seriously. THAT VANITY in a 120 year old house?!)
(They took out the gorgeous mantel and original tilework for THAT?! They took out the stately double-doors and corresponding trimwork for a set of massive and poorly designed built-ins?! And that light fixture. REALLY?!)
It breaks my heart. If I couldn't own Calvin, I just wished that somebody would love him enough to treat him right, to renovate him with careful thought and deliberation. To honor and respect his beautiful detail and undeniable character.
Sigh. It's over with us. Facebook is not the only means of ex-lover haunting in these days of social media. Damn you, Trulia.
Time to look forward to the one I can save: Cleveland. Now most of 317 Cleveland's little pieces were already removed when we bought him (the trim, the mantels), but I refuse to turn him into another suburban-cookie-cutter-builder-grade-horror. He may not have salvageable wood floors or door trim, but he still has his bones - his wide, welcoming entryway, his tall ceilings, his undeniable charm. Heck, that gorgeous solid wood mantel I saw a few weeks ago at the salvage yard may have been from Calvin Ave, and it would look no less as stunning in our new home.
And so going forward, I make the vow to respect Cleveland's history, to honor his past. He turns 100 years old next year, you know. He may not have a dead guy in the backyard, but he's probably got his share of stories, and ours together begins right now.
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