Is There Life After Ranch?
by Christine Mosley

I love old houses. Big ones, little ones, all styles and shapes, doesn't much matter to me. What does matter to me is their preservation. My family and I had the good fortune to live and work in one of Rhinebecks's great old houses for the last nine years, and we saw first-hand the multiple rewards we could reap from the restoration of it. I spoke often with friends and family about the merits of old-house living, the satisfaction refurbishment brings, and how truly "livable" these houses really are. Skeptics might raise questions about safety, maintenance and practicality, yet for me nothing was so satisfying as giving a vintage home a chance. So when it came time to sell our old house just recently, we knew where we wanted to live--you guessed it, another old house. So how did we end up in a 1972 ranch house? Here's the story.

Our real estate agent knows us well and as soon as the contracts of sale were signed, we began the hunt for the perfect old place. The agreed-upon closing date with our buyers left us a six-week window to find another home, and since it was the middle of winter, the house inventory in the Rhinebeck/Red Hook area was low. Our agent worked overtime to come up with half a dozen prospects; we narrowed them down to four and found one we thought fit the bill--a farmhouse on three acres about a mile from Rhinebeck village. Built circa 1860, it had it all--charming rooms, enough space for the family, and a delightfully bucolic view that included a beautiful red barn (right out of a picture book), which put the finishing touch on the ideal Hudson Valley property. We put in an offer that night, but alas, were too late. The identical offer was made hours before, so the first buyer won out. My heart sank, not only because we had lost the house, but because I knew the inventory choices we had left weren't even remotely close to what we wanted.

Next day, we reluctantly made our way through the three remaining properties our agent had to show us, all ranch houses, one smaller than the other. We trudged along through two feet of snow on unshoveled walks, past the front doors of houses from the sixties and seventies in all their avocado green glory. They seemed to greet us with: "Ha! This is your fate, Mr. and Mrs. Old House! Try living here with our orange formica countertops and luan doors"! I cringed in the face of those screaming, mocking countertops. I could hardly believe I was even looking at the very houses I loathed, but time and budget constraints loomed, and the family needed a place to live, soon.

"I have one more to show you", our agent said," in Red Hook village." I shrugged in resigned agreement, so the family split up into multiple cars, dejected and miserable, and followed closely behind our agent as he pulled up to the house.

It was empty. The snow was deep and covered the landscaping completely. We made our way to the front door, painted red in an obvious attempt to complement the brick surrounding it. (I sneered, of course). Once inside, I knew exactly what to expect; the same luan doors, clamshell moldings and cheap, dark brown cabinets I had seen in the two previous places. I was right, except for one thing - I almost liked it. The family stood staring, then, almost turning in unison, waited to see what my reaction would be.

"I like it."

"What? You do?"

"It has potential."

Mouths dropped. I walked around slowly, taking in all I could. The living room had a brick, floor- to- ceiling fireplace with a raised hearth. Hardwood floors, in wonderful condition, seemed to glow in the gray light of winter. Suddenly it came to me: an Arts and Crafts house! That's what we would do! I clenched my husband's arm and said, "We can do this. It isn't so bad. Picture a Morris rocker in that corner."

"You think so?"

"It's the ultimate challenge for us."

"Are you sure"?

"Definitely. The low roofline, fireplace, wood floors, it works for Arts and Crafts."

Never one to shrink from a challenge of any kind, my husband quickly got the idea and within hours we were negotiating for a house that a few days earlier I would never have considered at all. As I signed the final offer, I asked myself why I had settled so quickly for a house that had no historic value whatsoever? How on earth could I give the house some character if I despised it at the same time? Especially since I knew that the house hated me back!

The offer was accepted. The moving date was set. I began the final journey from my beloved Victorian, and with each box I packed I took the time to really look at what I was leaving behind. The graceful parlor with its seven foot windows, bulls-eye corner medallions atop fluted moldings and wideboard floors were only a part of the whole; the aura of the house--the accumulated joys and sorrows of so many families who had lived there--surrounded you the minute you walked up the porch and through the front door. I knew that in two weeks I would be unpacking these same boxes in a house devoid of heart and soul.

The ringing of the cell phone interrupted my musings. It was our real estate agent. "Hello, Christine, you're not going to believe this."

"What?"

"A small Victorian house has just gone on the market right down the street."

I caught my breath. "Which one?"

"The little white one, I think it's number 40." My husband must have seen my face lose its color and gestured me to tell him what was going on. In a whisper I told him--the house we had walked by a thousand times, the house that was needier than any other in the neighborhood, the one we had dreamed about restoring--was now on the market.

"Christine, are you there?"

"Oh, yes, I'm sorry, I'm just so surprised."

"Well, just thought you'd want to know. Such a shame you already bought the ranch. Would have been a great house for you guys. Take care, and I'll be in touch."

I said my goodbyes, turned to my husband and said, "Just shoot me."

His face reflected it all: the ironic, almost comedic timing of the missed opportunity. "OK, so what? What about we buy it anyway? Then we can do the Arts and Crafts remodel on the ranch, sell it, and move into the Victorian."

I secretly jumped at the chance to ditch the ranch house, but what common sense I had prevailed. After all, we had sold a big old house, not a chain of hotels, and we had not yet even moved into the ranch, and in a month we would have to start paying for four years of college. Besides which, when push came to shove, the little Victorian down the street was probably too small for our family.

My husband Doug accepted my arguments, but countered with his own commonsense approach: "All I'm saying is that we should have that house. We've always wanted the challenge of restoring it and I don't think we should pass up the chance to own it. And maybe the timing isn't just right but you know we bought the ranch only because there wasn't anything else available. Now there is."

I thought about it for two, maybe three seconds and said, "Let's do it."

Our plan became reality. Just about the time we moved into the ranch, our offer on the little Victorian was accepted and we were now the frazzled owners of two houses, one we loved, one we tolerated. I eagerly threw myself into the ranch's transformation, thinking we would finish it and get it on the market right away, but my mother had other ideas. Always the unfailing voice of reason, she called one day as we were gleefully prying off the clamshell molding in the living room.

"So, how's it going?" she asked

"Fine, Mom, the old moldings are almost down, so tomorrow we can install the new wide trim we've designed."

"Now, what's this 'Arts and Crafts' thing you're doing to that house?"

I tried to keep my boring history lesson very short: "Well, the Arts and Crafts movement began in the late 1800s, but didn't really become popular until after the turn of the century. Instead of the ornate, over-the-top decorating scheme so prevalent during the Victorian era, the Arts and Crafts style features a simpler, more masculine look that reflects a toned-down feeling of warm earth colors and homey interiors."

"It seems like you're doing an awful lot of work on a house you're planning to sell. You know, if you ask me, I think you should reconsider keeping the ranch."

"But, Mom, we really don't like it at all! It suits our needs, but the style . . ."

"There's nothing wrong with that house, Christine, and I think you should re-evaluate your plans."

Why did she have to be so practical?

"I don't know about staying here. I'm not sure we'd be happy."

"Just think about it, that's all I'm asking."

I hung up the phone and sank down into the brand new Morris chair by the fireplace, overwhelmed by the impact of my mother's wise words. For the first time in a month, I allowed myself to think about actually living here. The chair surrounded me in comfort; the warm gold color on the walls complemented the wonderful richness of the hardwood floors. Everything I loved was in that room - family photos, antiques, a favorite wool rug, and suddenly I knew it all went together.

Just think about it, my mother had said.

I thought long and hard. The decision came easily.

So now my husband and I get into the car every day and drive over to our little Victorian, the neediest on the block. We work long hours repairing the troubles the years have wrought upon it, knowing in our heart of hearts that the house really doesn't belong to us. A few months from now that restored little jewel will belong to someone else, just as it should. In the meantime, as we pull into the driveway every night, our ranch house seems to smile, wink and welcome us home again.