Last night my daughter and I looked at a home for sale by owner.
It was built in 1920, in the historic district of Star, Idaho.
Built on the corner, the owner had tons of flowers, a fenced yard, and nice driveway. Huge trees crowded the property next door, also for sale, but by a realtor. The trees made me nervous. What if a storm came through and decided to wreak havoc. The roof would be a goner, both that property and maybe the neighbors.
It was the inside of the house that killed me. So many tiny rooms, halls and corridors, and if that wasn't claustrophobic enough, she had the place packed with stuff. Just stuff, miniature trees, real trees and plants. Wood stove, furniture, tables. It was like I was a mouse in the maze and her two cats the ones living there. Sure smelled like it anyways.
I can't abide tiny enclosed places like that. A shot gun kitchen, the Master Bedroom had no bathroom. Bathrooms were dark and creepy.
I find out, give me the open floor plan of the new generation, the new century, the open air and huge windows.
Her garden and yard was the same, winding paths, all crowed with various flower beds and trees. It was very artistic, I must say, with benches and stuff. Just stuff.
The housing market has probably bottomed out. I'm looking around now, hoping to know it when I see it.