Our House

A love letter to four walls and the life they have held.

I had my doubts about the place. The paint was peeling; the kitchen was cramped; oak saplings sprouted in the gutters. But — Cameron argued — the house had potential. The siding would need to be repainted, true, but that would be an opportunity to choose a deeper, moodier color, one we truly loved. The kitchen could be opened up — all we would need to do was knock out a few cabinets and countertops and maybe a pantry, and swing the dishwasher 90 degrees, and also install new floors, appliances, and lighting. No problem! As for the saplings — neither of us was keen to clean gutters that high off the ground, so we would go gutter-free.

We agreed that the downstairs flowed beautifully, with few doors to obstruct movement and abundant windows to welcome natural light. And we agreed that the location felt right, set amid the graceful canopy and quiet beauty of Central Gardens. The house was even on a street that my parents had dreamed of one day calling home, though they never did.

Our own search had centered on tidy three-bedroom bungalows, whereas this was a spacious American Foursquare, c. 1906, with cloud-high ceilings and an attached sunroom adding even more living space. I was moving from a one-bedroom apartment, Cameron from a compact house in Birmingham. Even with all of our belongings moved in, our new, shared home felt … minimalist, without meaning to be. Over time, we made the house our own. We unpacked, learned the quirks and squeaks, bought furniture.

Then, a few months after we had moved in, an electrical fire sparked in the wiring to the dryer. I thought Cameron was burning dinner; his son, Noah, thought I was burning sage. By the time we realized this was no singed sweet potato, the fire was climbing inside the walls. We were fortunate that the fire department arrived swiftly, and that the damage was, mostly, repairable. For several months, we and our pets were a traveling circus around assorted Airbnbs of Midtown Memphis; even after professional cleaning, I still smelled smoke on our jackets.

The fire clarified and strengthened our family, bonding us as survivors of a pretty horrifying event. The house itself grew stronger after the flames, too. Crews mended the damage done and then some — a half-bathroom that had wanted love finally got it; the sunroom, previously a bright orange puzzle of terra cotta tile, was refloored, and a wet bar replaced by a wall of bookshelves; the downstairs was repainted and the floors refinished, to address smoke damage and water damage. We also engaged the repair crew to finish a half-done kitchen renovation while they were at it. We took extra measures to ensure that our home would be safer in the future, by hiring an electrician to inspect and modernize every outlet and socket.

By the time we resettled, months later, our home was both safer and more pleasant than it ever would have been, had the wires not sparked a conflagration. We christened it “The Phoenix,” for its rise from the ashes.

We’re temporary caretakers of our homes, keeping them safe and making them beautiful just in time for someone else’s shift to begin.

Over the years to follow, we would invest in many more projects around the house — some to improve function, others to add beauty. We replaced doors, repainted walls inside and out, installed new skylights where the leaky ones had been, re-roofed the sunroom addition, bought new appliances. Sometimes, occasionally, we grumbled at the place — a 120-year-old house has her own ideas. But the longer we lived here, the more we loved our home: the gorgeous light, the wide-open sightlines, the space for our family just to be.

We have loved this house, but its 2800+ square feet are more than we’ll need as our lives evolve. My stepson will depart for college in a matter of weeks; Cameron and I don’t need so much room. This spring, we decided to list the house for sale.

(I will pause the story here to note that I am not leaving Memphis Magazine — you’re still stuck with me! Just moving house.)

We contacted the same real estate agent, Lynda Baddour, who had represented us in purchasing the home. Lynda, who happens to be a former account executive for this very magazine, would be uniquely positioned to tell the story of the house, having seen it before we moved in, while it was being renovated, and now.

The house had come a long way already, but Lynda recommended a few more spruces before we listed it for sale. We had the exterior painted about five years ago, and while most of the paint and boards were aging well, a few sections of siding needed to be repaired or replaced. I love our home’s wood siding, but wet weather and warm sun had had their way with the east-facing side, even since we had the full exterior scraped, mended, and repainted a few years ago. In the backyard, a section of the privacy fence was wonky and wobbly; the workers here added fencing to their growing list. Inside, an upstairs bathroom cried out for a new vanity and sinks — we had simply never gotten around to it, but the fixtures in place were in rough condition — and we obliged.

Once the pre-listing work was complete, Lynda engaged a real-estate photographer to capture images. I don’t think our house ever looks particularly cluttered, but I learned that for staging purposes, nearly everything that lives on a flat surface needed to be hidden. Pepper grinders, cooking utensils, candles, kitchen scales: all tucked out of sight. Dog bed: stashed atop the washer/dryer. Newspapers and magazines: gone. (Maybe there’s more clutter than I realize?) Cat boxes: sorry, but they stayed put — freshly cleaned, of course! Also, every single light in the house needed to be switched on — even at 3:00 in the bright summer afternoon.

Even though I might have rolled my eyes at the process, I had to admit that the photos turned out beautifully.

Photos made — and, crucially, a listing agreement signed — it was official: Our home was for sale. There was a web link to the listing, a sturdy sign in the front yard, and an open house on the calendar.

I don’t know what we expected. Homes in our neighborhood have been selling, but the market is moving more slowly than a few years ago. Still, we were surprised (and yes, worried) that we didn’t need to vacate for showings right away. On the Sunday of the open house, we cleaned and tidied and styled the house, arranged fresh flowers in a few rooms, and then piled three humans, one dog, and two cats into a Subaru Crosstrek. We drove to Harbor Town, popped into Cordelia’s for picnic supplies, and then draped our blanket and ourselves on the riverbank. The cats stayed in their travel enclosure, but we opened the hatchback so that they could see the rolling, roiling Mississippi for the first time. (Being cats, they frankly were unimpressed.)

Lynda said the open house had gone well: There may not have been huge crowds, but several visitors had expressed genuine interest. One or two even planned to return for private showings. And indeed, in the days to follow, we (and the four-legged crew) did vacate the house again for further showings — not nearly as many as we had hoped and expected, but, as Cameron kept reminding me, we only needed one buyer. We were very lucky to receive an offer just six days after the listing was posted. The offer was contingent on the sale of the buyers’ home, but — lucky again — their process went relatively quickly, too, another stroke of luck. I’ll admit that in the negotiating period, little struck me as lucky or charmed: I was more … annoyed. But that period ended, and in hindsight, I can see how fortunate we were. Yes, even though the buyers’ inspection prompted a series of repair requests: more wood repair; a fogged window; this, that, and the other, but nothing truly major.

This house has been very sweet to us. Yes, sure, it did catch on fire that one time. But maybe that was just the house’s way of pressing a reset button? We have loved our years here, and all the moments that we’ve experienced within these walls. But I think we humans are meant to keep moving. I’m excited to begin again, and again, and again.

If you’re thinking of listing your home, my advice: Trust the process. Be prepared for surprises. Advocate for yourself. Do your best to extricate emotion from business. (I had a hard time not being offended when a potential buyer didn’t fall head over heels for our house. It’s not a personal affront — but can feel that way.) Try to be patient and flexible; surprises are inevitable. Your real estate agent is there to help you navigate: Let them. Above all — and I struggle with this one — give yourself grace and keep perspective. The house we’ve loved for seven years has been standing for 120. It was nearly 80 when I was born, and I fully expect these walls to outlast me. We’re temporary caretakers of our homes, keeping them safe and making them beautiful just in time for someone else’s shift to begin. The assessor’s office can tell you what your house is worth in dollars, but there’s no quantifying what the feeling of home is worth to your soul.

44K Days

Like most of Central Gardens, this home was built in the early twentieth century. My colleague, Michael Finger, investigated its specific history. He found that the Shelby County Assessor shows a construction date of 1900, but since there is no evidence of an actual structure until later, Michael surmises that either property taxes were being paid on vacant lots purchased by developers, or the date is wrong.

By 1906, residents were listed at the house for the first time: one J.H. Moyston, along with several other members of the Moyston family (including a reporter/editor for the Memphis News-Scimitar!). By 1910, the Moystons had left and the house was occupied by a variety of folks, including a paper company sales rep, a bookkeeper for an iron company, a dressmaker, a foreman, and a nurse.

In the mid-1940s, the house was divided into apartments and seems to have been occupied by as many as ten individuals (five couples) at once, not counting any children who may not have been listed in city directories.

By the late 1960s, the house seems to have been vacant, but by the 1970s, it apparently was used as apartments again: The residents’ livelihoods were listed as: “no job; retired; no job, Pure Oil Station.”

Then, in 1984, a respected local attorney bought the house, along with his wife, an artist; the two raised their children here. We bought the house from this family, who took loving care of the place for some 35 years — by far the longest it has remained with any singular owner.

I love to think of all the life that’s been lived under this roof — nearly 44,000 days, more than a million hours, after the house was built.