The House with The Mint Door

I’ve always believed in signs. Bird of prey sightings, gut feelings, and the everyday extraordinary that jumps out at you.

Lately, like the hawks I admire, I’ve been circling an empty house that’s for sale a few blocks from my parents house.

It’s a brick mid-century ranch with a vintage mint colored door that has a gold door knob in the center.

Every day at 2pm I take Ginny on a walk around the neighborhood and lately I’ve gravitated towards this house. 

Last week, I took Sal and we climbed into the bushes to peer into the windows and get an unofficial floor plan. It was chock full of possibilities. The big ugly carpet that smothered the living room beckoned to get ripped up, as did the drop ceiling which could be removed to heighten the room and accented with a few skylights. 

I’ve started to become obsessed with this house, running through imaginary renovations and potential. Ginny’s room would be in the back, and Sal’s office would have the big picture window up front facing the street. We’d leave some of the bones of the kitchen, but remove the wall leading into the dining room. A new fence and landscaping would need to be done, but the bones and the lines were good. I’m still trying to figure out what to do with the fireplace which hits you right as you walk into the door. Add a mantle? Make it a sitting room? 

The house, which was built in the 1950s needs a lot of work. It looks like it was updated forty years ago and then never touched after that – but there’s charm in spades.

I fantasize about us buying the home, moving in, and diving headfirst into all the work that needs to be done. Scraping paint, demoing walls, and adding decorating details. Dreaming about “our house” as Sal calls it has become my new favorite pastime.

One afternoon, high on the idea, I hit the little blue button on the real estate website to request a tour of the house. With no photos on the listing, I felt like I needed to get inside to really feel this place out. Maybe there was a reason I couldn’t get it out of my head. Maybe it’s a sign. 

Right away they got back to me, sharing photos and a video tour of the house. But the bedrooms were smaller than I pictured, the basement was flooded, and the financing seemed high. The responsibility of home ownership flooded my brain, the reality sucking all the air out of my fantasy. I became dizzy and overwhelmed like I was going to throw up.

My perfect little bungalow bubble popped and I knew immediately this wasn’t the house for us.

As we enter Taurus season, I’m reminded of how much my home is a sanctuary and a place of comfort. And although this wasn’t “our home” maybe it is a sign after all. With childcare support, home cooked meals, and M&M cookies made by my mom, maybe this is a reminder that we are where we are supposed to be. Or maybe it’s a sign of hope – that my new apartment in Brooklyn is still waiting for me to be loved and adored and obsessed over when we get back to the city later this year. 

Maybe my job now is just to keep it moving, like those hawks in the sky.

Xx,

Written by Erin Bagwell
Copy edited by Diana Matthews