My sisters and I knew going in to this real estate market that a place this size—a couple hundred acres—wouldn’t sell overnight. I hadn’t thought that my home, which was built as a two-story metal barn 40-plus years ago, would be a factor, one way or another. It is what it is, a work in progress, a piece of art, house and great storage fronted by an awesome native Texas garden, also a work in progress and a piece of art. I’ve realized though that this place isn’t for everyone. It’s not for those without imagination or a bent for work and problem-solving, and it’s not for anyone who might worry that using the outdoor shower, which is open to the sky but protected by a privacy fence, might expose them to someone who happens by these two hundred acres in rural Leon County. Sure, I have traditional bathrooms inside, including a shower stall and a whirlpool tub. For the life of me, though, I can’t understand why anyone wouldn’t choose to shower in the fresh air nine months out of the year, looking up at a 100-year-old Green Ash tree, and knowing that a lush shade garden surrounds the enclosure. Those who balk at bathing in the nest of nature apparently are not few in number. Hmmm, that’s different.
So I said to the young couple from Houston this morning as we paused in the garden—a-blush with the spring bounty of old garden roses in bloom, brilliant red amaryllis standing near a wax leaf mahonia covered with wine-like berries, trees flush with green-green leaf, and perennials staging their annual comeback all around—I intended for this garden to look like it just happened here. The house, you either get it or you don’t. One of the party of three, a woman who grew up in this county but lives and works in Houston and has a weekend place here, replied that houses are a work in progress. Yes they are, as well as gardens, and as well as life. If you need a magazine or a decorator to flesh-out your brain or a landscaper to burp out a garden plan, best not make the stop here.
The prospective buyers asked a few intelligent questions, the third party gushed over the antiques, art and artfulness of the space, even making suggestions about how additional undeveloped space in the barn could be converted from storage to living area. After the realtor loaded them into her four-wheel drive SUV to tour the land, I started weeding outside the fenced-in area. And as I worked, I thought, you really do have to get this place. It’s big, it sprawls, it gets dusty from the county road even though it stands more than a football length from the road, and the garden, well, that’s a full-time job itself, if you choose to make it that.
Were I starting over here, or starting at any of a number of junctures where I’ve made more than a couple of fly-by-the-seat-of-the-pants choices, I’d do some things differently. I wonder how many million-dollar homes dot the landscape of America where the owners would have made different choices. It’s all relative, and it’s all about getting what you’ve got. For most ordinary folks, it’s also about available resources—money, energy, time, and motivation. I can’t imagine living in a suburban home, manicuring the driveway and sidewalks with a power edger, making the semi-yearly trek to the local home and garden super mart for another round of garden annuals, going down to the local edition of a chain furniture gallery for a new living room set, or having the poster from a trip to a traveling Broadway musical framed, well, for any room in the house. Yet when I despair over the project list and the problem solving that comes with my real estate territory here, I want to remind myself that none of this happened overnight. And oh how thankful I am for clean sheets on a comfortable bed, climate-controlled air, working commodes upstairs and down, leftovers in the refrigerator, and a full moon shining into the outside bath area deck as I lay awake in the middle of the night wondering about my life.
Getting What You’ve Got—Normangee, Texas (April 19, 2008)
R. Harold Hollis
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