Illustration by Victoria Borges
My father warned me not to fall in love as I was admiring the 10-foot-high pocket doors. Fair point, but that’s a bit like counseling me not to be charmed by a handsome man while he regales me with stories of daredevil travel. Too late.
I toured the house on a chilly, rainy day in late October, put in a full-price offer and closed on it a month later. I loved the herringbone brick in the courtyard, its location right in the city center, fireplaces in every room and the wrought-iron front porch. And Jackson Ward had all the good dining, walkability, character and potential I was looking for. I patted myself on the back for being so bold and forward-thinking, my city-girl, chic, pied-à-terre dreams come true.
Nevermind that this house had three bedrooms and about a thousand square feet more than the condo I left behind. Or that I hate housekeeping and am loath to spend any time dusting baseboards. I can’t remember ever washing a window without someone else suggesting it to me.
The house was my claim to a new life in the city. My daughter was grown, my business stable, and I was ready for the next phase, which apparently included two floors of exposed brick and heart pine floors. Yes, indeed, I could be happy here.
As with any great romance, I was already projecting our wonderful life together and all the fun things we would do. I would have parties where people could admire my Midcentury furniture in a historic setting. I would continuously add to my collection with exactly the right chair or rug.
That first winter I knew I had been outmatched. The electric heat pump could barely keep up. It was hard to play Lady of the Manor while sporting five layers of clothing. I bought a heated mattress pad and tried to train myself to sleep through the night without a bathroom break. It didn’t work.
After a couple of months of research, I switched the electric heat pump for a gas furnace. My daughter remarked that overnight it felt like spring — inside our house.
There was the day I came home from work and opened my beautiful, original, solid-wood front door, only to have it come crashing down as I entered. From the street, my house looked like it had a missing front tooth. Those beautiful, old hinges had cracked, leaving me with a prone door.
Literally unhinged, I started calling everyone I knew to scrounge up someone who could help. The upside to the debacle is that I found a great handyman, whom I now see more than my boyfriend.
I can’t say I’ve had too many parties. They’re a lot of work. I did paint my dining room a dark, dusky blue, inspired by the moody, Danish interiors I salivated over on Pinterest. No one eats in there, but I enjoy it as I walk to and from the kitchen.
Sometimes there are groups of kids outside waiting to get into the Maggie Walker Museum next door. One morning I looked up to find several balancing on my front porch waving at me. I waved back, glad I had chosen to get fully dressed.
Every time something breaks or needs attention, I remember I am a steward of this beautiful home. It has survived for nearly 150 years despite neglect and the gutting of this historic neighborhood. It’s not just about what this house can offer me, it’s about the privilege of attending to a piece of Richmond history.
Maybe it’s real love after all.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Rebecca Thomas is an entrepreneur, coach, writer and Jackson Ward’s resident silver fox.
