Outskirts Press, INC.

FOR PEOPLE WITH A PASSION FOR REAL ESTATE AND LOVERS OF A GOOD STORY

The houses are the characters in this non-fictional record of a journey through life and a side trip into the world of Real Estate that became an obsession. Starting with a $1,000 investment, the author and her husband accumulated a multi-million dollar nest egg. Their primary purpose was not to attain wealth but to find a house that could become “home” as needs changed with the passage of time. The search for the right house became an addictive and enjoyable part of the process. Throughout the journey, affiliation to family members and bizarre occurrences directed their steps, sometimes down the wrong path. The interference of strangers had effects of tangential, life-changing importance. Realtors played a part in their success and failures. Life’s tragedies are counted among its triumphs. Life’s lessons are learned along the way. Reading like fiction, this purely factual account tells a story that will leave the reader assessing the passions and priorities in his/her own life. Addresses and names are disguised only to protect places and people.

I began my search for our new home.... A poetic description of a stone cottage set on three acres of land caught my attention. It was in a different borough of gently rolling hills, sparsely populated. As we left church ... we spontaneously caught the red bus that happened by. It was early February and winter was upon us. The air was icy and the sky darkening with pending snow. A few lazy flakes drifted down. By the time we neared the property snow was thick on the ground. The bus could go no further. The few passengers on board were politely asked to disembark. We were so close that we decided to walk on. We walked straight ahead and alternated with our backs to the force of the storm. We reached the cottage. It was everything I'd hoped for: a squat gray stone building set way back from the country lane, nestled into a bucolic, picture post-card setting. A low stone wall encircled and defined the perimeters of the three acres. The whole was blanketed by freshly fallen snow. Barely visible through the storm, the orange flicker of firelight glowed on small, multi-paned windows. A wisp of fire-smoke drifted languidly out of the chimney, then was forced sideways and lost in the sleeting snow. A sign on the garden wall said simply "For Sale" and a telephone number. Our bodies were warm from layered clothing, but our uncovered faces were stinging from the cold. Deep drifts barred passage to the cottage door. There was no transportation home. Luckily, a short block further, we came upon an old Inn.