Suffice to say that I have decided not to peruse the house in rural Tennessee that I had been drooling over last weekend. Upon further reflection, I determined that I was not quite willing to give up the comforts of Starbucks, $.99 dry cleaning, dining, and other options that are available living closer to the a major urban center. I think I liked the idea of living in the country more than I liked the actual prospect of doing it.

Houses are a little like women in that you never really seem to forget your first love. So, my friends, we’re going back to the beginning of this little saga… to the little house, on a tree-lined street, that started it all. After further review, I need to disregard the god-awful paint that the current owner has inflicted on the place and marvel instead at the original woodwork. The place apparently comes complete with individual and neighborhood listing on the National Register and is about as respectable an area in Memphis as you’re going to find… You can make you jokes about Memphis being the 2nd (or 4th) most dangerous city in America, but this is an area of college professors and white collar “old house people.” The first time I saw the place, I was bowled over by how much hadn’t been changed. Tomorrow I’m going in to find the warts.

Wish me luck.