A Sunday Times article about dream homes – the wanting and the waiting for and the rare but happy acquisition of – reminded me that I was fortunate enough to live in my own dream home for a number of years. It was a 1936 granite bungalow in Columbia’s Shandon neighborhood. Hardwood floors, smooth plaster ceilings, glass doorknobs on panel doors. Transoms, even. We landscaped the yard to a fare-thee-well and lovingly stripped and refinished all (and I do mean all) the hardware. I imagined myself growing old and dying in that house, just like the man who’d lived there before me.
Strange to think that I later spent what seemed like an eternity praying for a buyer to take it all away.
Acadia and I had lunch with Peter Saputo today in Tryon. She’s a charmer. So is he.