The Secret Garden House

I looked at the Lemony Snicket's house. Florescent lighting glared upon the hospital-white walls so that the whole place felt like that scene--not from Lemony Snicket's but from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (Gene Wilder version) where Mick TeeVee gets broadcast across the room.

Even with better lighting and nicer colors-- that house had a bad vibe. Also, Mr. Trump is building a 55 story building that will block much of the view.

But I found something cool. It's on a gorgeous street, in what was the 'hood two years ago and is now a 'hood half filled with yuppies. It's a brick attached Edwardian home. It feels right. And the backyard has a secret garden. Really, it does.



Imagine a square. Each side is the wall of an enclosed backyard. So the middle square, between those four yards, is like a yard itself. It's about 25 by 25 feet. Except nobody owns it. The realtor looked it up on the town map. It's not deeded to anyone. Nobody's taxed on it. It's not town land, either. It's forgotten.

It probably hasn't been touched in decades. It's filled with tall trees, a little forest in the middle of the 'hood. And only one of those houses has a gate into that forest. The one I looked at, Number Sixty-One.

I stood in this room that, if I bought the house, I would make look like a castle tower. It's kind of round, the windows leaning out into the trees. I looked out at the secret garden and I thought, "This is my house."

The only problem is that it's just a shell right now. Needs a total gut rehab because it's uninhabitable as is. No plumbing, no lights, no heat, no nothing. In fact, no windows, just the spaces where they should be. But it called to me. It said, "Cupcake, we belong to each other. Welcome home."


Am I crazy?

I really want it. But I also know that if I get it, the stress and inevitable cashflow problems will torture me until the work is finished.

There's every likelihood that I could make a great deal of money, buying this place, fixing it up, living there for a year or two and then selling. (Although I'm already thinking, "No! I can't sell the secret garden house! I'll live there forever!")

It's not just because of the secret garden that I really liked the house. It had a feel -- a good feel. It felt welcoming. I could imagine living there and being my best self-- working on my stuff. Hanging out with my dogs. Cooking. Having friends over. The bus to Manhattan is on the corner.

It's worth it, though, isn't it? If at the end you get a home? If I can rebuild the way I want-- with a woodstove as backup in case we have some sort of catclysm? With a claw foot tub under a window that's part stained glass and part view of the secret garden? (I have the claw foot already, in the basement of my house in Vermont, just waiting to be put to use.)

Imagine having a house a stone's throw from Manhattan, with exposed brick walls, high ceilings, and a secret garden full of trees? A little forest all to oneself?

Dang.

I'm going to make an offer.

Remind me, later, when I'm posting about the ordeals of working with contractors, that I knew it would be like that, okay?

A secret garden would be worth it. A bedroom like a medieval tower.

Yes.