When you live in the same house for over fifty years, it becomes more than just a place to sleep. It becomes a piece of your identity, a part of your soul.
My late husband, George, and I built this little brick house back in the early seventies. We were young then, full of hope and ambition. The neighborhood was nothing but farmland and dirt roads, but George saw potential.
He was a carpenter by trade, meticulous with his hands, and I loved flowers and gardens. Together, we turned an empty plot of land into a warm home surrounded by one of the greenest lawns in town.
