Magic

Silly city dog doesn't know about freezing creeks.

It's official - we're house-hunting.  Buying a house probably shouldn't be such an exciting happening for a 32-year-old; most people are probably homeowners for close to a decade at this point in their lives.  But I was a New Yorker for most of my twenties, and New Yorkers are renters (unless they are very, very rich, which we are not).  Jon and I have rented six homes in the past eight years, not counting dorm rooms - and yes, that means that we have moved almost every year, even since we started having babies.  I am desperate to unpack and stay that way.  And we've found a few towns that we (amazingly) agree could work for us - rural but with good schools, a decent commute to his job and a possible one for mine, and pretty.  So, so, so pretty.  Horses and apple orchards and stone walls kind of pretty.  The houses themselves, on the other hand - well, there's the problem.  Our budget is very limited for our area, and we have a fairly ambitious wish list.  Jon's is practical - he worries about things like oil heat and repairs and cracked foundations.  I'm more like Jane's father in Jane of Lantern Hill:

"Let's sum up ... a little house, white and green or to be made so ... with trees, preferably birch and spruce ... a window looking seaward ... on a hill. That sounds very possible ... but there is one other requirement. There must be magic about it, Jane ... lashings of magic." 

                                     --- L.M. Montgomery, Jane of Lantern Hill

Lashings of magic - and I'll know it when I see it. 

Adding to that bit of totally irresponsible wish-listing - one of the towns we are considering, the one I really, really, really want, is the former home of Louisa May Alcott.  No big deal.  Nope.  I would not pay extra just to live in a town where the author of Little Women lived.  That would be ridiculous.  Completely out of the question.  I'm lying, I would do it so fast.  And of course, that's the town that's just the tiniest bit out of our price range, meaning that I can see a few conversations like this in the future:

Practical husband: "This house was built in 1750 and the roof leaks and the floors are crooked."

Me: "But can't you just picture Jo and Teddy running down that lane?"

Practical husband: "What the eff are you talking about?"

So we'll see!  In the meantime, we're going stir-crazy with snowstorm after snowstorm.  It's almost too deep for the littles to play in, but we try:  

Should have warned him about the incoming snowball - took the picture instead.