So, apparently I’m a worrier.
I recently started house hunting with my husband.
We bought a house.
We returned the house.
Yes, you can do that, with a little luck and a dash of insanity.
I realize this might sound like an odd introductory column, but I thought this story would be a good way for everyone to get to know my personality.
It all started with pulling out our broken, 40-year-old oven from the 1928 Hampton home we live in. The materials behind the oven, covered in old chipped paint and holes where my father-in-law had jerry-rigged electrical cords, made my hair stand on end.
Could that be asbestos? I said.
My husband, having lived nearly his entire life in the home that his great-grandfather built, wasn’t concerned. But he agreed to get it tested.
Turns out it wasn’t asbestos, but several contractors later, we had lead paint and mold issues to contend with.
Now, I’ve lived in Morocco for two-plus years as a U.S. Peace Corps volunteer. I can take some mold, scorpions and questionable drinking water, among other things.
But with a toddler on my hands, I couldn’t just let it go.
My husband, being the fix-it guy that he is, cleaned up much of the lead paint.
The mold, that’s been a whole different animal.
We’ve had estimates from $30,000 to $40,000 just to get rid of it. That estimate doesn’t include getting a much-needed new roof, dehumidifying the crawl space and buying more air conditioning units.
With that in mind we decided to say goodbye to the 1928 home, with its hardwood floors, 9-foot ceilings, handmade French doors and cedar shake siding, all nestled on a wooded tract of land fairly far from neighbors.
We scoured various real estate sites and ultimately found an agent who in no time at all found us a home we both like, a huge feat in itself. It was a quaint, 1,100-square-foot home with a garage, decent size yard and in good elementary and middle school zones.
But the morning after we signed the contract, I awoke with a huge sense of dread.
I pulled up Google and typed in “asbestos.”
My old fears flared up again. Our new 1958 home could have asbestos in its textured paint, in the plaster or in the joint compounds of the walls.
Ugh.
I know you’re sitting there thinking I’m being quite neurotic. I probably am, but moving from a 1928 mold home to a 1958 asbestos home made my stomach turn.
Several calls later, we had our much-exhausted real estate agent send the sellers a request to release us from our contract.
They refused on the spot, only to release us a day later.
I don’t recommend my approach to life: worrying about everything and waiting to the last second to make a choice.
But I’m still happy with our decision.
For now, we’re planning to fix the roof of the moldy, yet picturesque, Hampton home. Beyond that, there isn’t enough space in this column to explain all the options we’re considering.
I hope you have enjoyed my first Bridges column. You can be assured I’ll be worrying each week over whether I’ve got the right content for you and that I’m best under pressure.
I used to cover the city of Portsmouth for The Virginian-Pilot and most recently served as a copy editor for the newspaper. I know former Bridges editor Lia Russell knew these communities inside and out, and I aspire to do the same. Please keep reading, sending story ideas and giving feedback.
Johanna Somers, 757-446-2478, johanna.somers@pilotonline.com
