I have owned two homes. Both were condos. The first was a place I never felt completely comfortable in, largely due to my inability to relax thanks to the financial pressure I felt paying for the place. The second I purchased when I was half past give a shit in life; a tiny slice of bachelor living that was comfortable while I licked my wounds from a crippling divorce. Yet neither home I bought, nor any other of the many places I have lived over the years, feels quite as welcoming and homey as this place. A quaint New England dwelling with a bizarre floor plan and more built in bookshelves than a small-town library, this place has been where I hang my hat for the past two years, and it’s my son’s first and only. I think he loves this place as much as I do. Its oddness reflects our own oddness. Its old fashioned style reflects a love for things past. Its lovely yard provides us with hours and hours of exploration and joy. We are enormously lucky to live between such storied walls that so often feel as thought they have absorbed generations of good vibes. It’s my hope we will provide many more years of such positivity.
