When I was a kid, I’d sneak away to the attic above my grandmother’s garage on Victoria Avenue in Los Angeles — a dusty, no-go zone for any reasonable adult. The stairs were rickety, the floorboards weren’t to be trusted, and the whole place was littered with the kind of forgotten storage adults pretend doesn’t exist. Mostly half empty boxes, paint cans, and miscellaneous mops, rags, and lamps. It was perfect.
I turned that forbidden loft into my clubhouse. I wasn’t supposed to be up there, but what I lacked in permission I made up for in sheer vision. I strung a discarded scrap of lace over the window as a curtain. I draped a tablecloth over a cardboard box for a table, arranged some wonky folding chairs around it (I still have one of those chairs, by the way), and got to work decorating my little corner of the world with the treasures I squirreled away from the parts of my grandmother’s house I was actually allowed to explore. All in the effort of throwing my pretend dinner parties, of course.
What I wanted more than anything was a space to make mine — to sweep, to decorate, to fill with tiny treasures I’d tuck into my pockets for safe keeping (think: pebbles, three leaf clovers, blown out birthday candles), and, of course, to boss my little sister around like any respectable clubhouse curator would.
Fast-forward thirty-some-odd years and I’m hundreds of miles from the garage attic on Victoria Avenue – physically, but not spiritually. This month marks one full year of living in the Painted Lady in Bellville, Texas — a house built in 1888, with a wraparound porch, well-worn wood floors, and a particular kind of charm that borders on haunted if the wind hits just right (or you linger in a thought for too long).
Six months in to life here, I was sitting in the front room making a mental to-do list (which, if I’m honest, I now know is more of a lifelong scroll), staring out through a pair of delicate lace curtains left by the previous owners. They suit the room nicely and keep me from having to buy new curtains anytime soon. That’s when it hit me — that old scrap of lace I tried to hang in the attic window as a kid? This is what I was going for. Beyond my dreams, really.
But here’s the thing no one tells you about finally getting the house of your dreams: it’s a lot. There’s no end. Nothing is ever done. There’s always something — a plumbing emergency, a chimney in need of sweeping, foundation repairs, a floorboard that sighs too deeply underfoot. Just yesterday I cried about my pool being green and honestly, it wasn’t the first time I’ve cried over a home hiccup. The laundry list is long, and my Pinterest boards have wildly misled me about the pace of progress.
It turns out that making a home, especially in a house this old, is less about completing projects and more about fostering a relationship — a slow, attentive rhythm of care and patience and presence. This place demands devotion.
A few of the best things I’ve done in this house so far:
• Best thing I’ve baked: A chocolate stout cake with cream and raspberries — the one we served at our front porch wedding.
• Best spot for a second cup of coffee: The bench in the corner of the kitchen tucked behind the bistro breakfast table.
• Best unexpected joy: Graham and Tron sleeping in the same bed…. which is so cute the humans in the bed are willing to sleep around the edges.
• Best smell: Fresh kolaches in the oven. No question.
• Best decision: Watching friends and family gather on the front lawn for surprise front porch wedding from my bedroom window (pictured above) and moving to charming Bellville, TX in the first place.
What I’ve learned in a year is that this house is drafty and opinionated. I know the dining room is on its third (and favorite) wallpaper. A period perfect selection from Bradbury & Bradbury’s William Morris Collection. I know I can’t pick curtains for the bedroom upstairs sand I might as well just close my eye and play eeny-meeny-miny-moe on some reasonably priced curtain website (jk those don’t exist).
Will and I learned together what it’s like to fill this house with people. That’s when it feels the most alive. It’s why we got married on the front porch in front of our family on Thanksgiving Day. It’s why I had to pause when I saw our loved ones hold hands around my kitchen as I said a prayer to bless Easter lunch. The house seems to hold it all so naturally — the noise, the stillness, the love — I can feel it in its bones.
Just last night, Will and I were playing that silly “What Would You Do If You Won the Lottery” game in the backyard. It was early evening and everyone had headed home after Easter lunch. Will was enjoying the last of a cigar and I sat on propped up against the pool shed, staring up at the house. Will had humble plans for his lottery winnings, a true Capricorn with a pension towards old cars and older Harleys. Me? I said, “You wouldn’t know I won, but you would see me hire someone to remove every last wooden board from the outside of this house, insulate her properly, and reassemble her piece by loving piece with Hardie board.” He laughed. “Really? That’s your dream?” Home repairs? YES. And new electrical.
Truth is — even without the lottery — we have more than enough. This house, in all its glorious chaos, is the dream (that I hope to share more of with you soon!). The little girl with a dusty attic clubhouse has grown up and learned to stress over galvanized plumbing, pinch pleat curtains, and a dog who is bound to catch one of the squirrels he chases through the backyard one of these days.
And I get to be here, fussing over every corner with a heart full of gratitude and a tape measure (if only I could find it).
One year in, and I still can’t believe I get to call this place home.