They found me in the hush of morning, a mid-century ranch crouched low against the land. My black siding, moody, my red brick gleaming, sun-warmed and grounded. The kind of contrast that draws a hand to touch. I was born in 1963 when wood was denser and craftsmanship prouder. They chose a quiet cul-de-sac for me, in the North Hampton subdivision, walking distance to Leslie Beach club. I stretch long, flat, and knowing with vaulted ceilings lifting high, like a breath held at sunrise. There’s light here. Not just the golden kind that slips through clerestory windows and cuts across my floors like a painter’s brush, but a quiet clarity. The kind that rests in the bones of things built to last. I was built to last. I was built from love. In the morning, she sits with me. Coffee in hand. Leather sighs beneath her, her Eames lounge in its forever spot against my window wall. Beyond, the trees lean in close. It’s hard to say where I end and the woods begin. My screened porch listens well. It filters light, happiness, and the layered music of summer: cicadas droning, frogs sounding off in low percussion. She loves to share her red wine with me in the evenings on this porch. Sometimes with friends, sometimes alone. And oh, my garden. Not young. Not delicate. It’s established. Camellias whisper pink against the black façade. Spirea arches like the arm of an old friend. A Japanese maple standing wise, while day lilies burn bright. All of it held by hand-built stone walls, rough, imperfect, enduring. I was made for this, morning light and late night toasts. For sheltering both stillness and story. For that moment when she looks up from her office desk out the window, and the trees shimmer green and gold, and she remembers why she chose me. Her daughter is grown, gone. Life has turned a gentle corner. She’s met someone. There’s love again, unexpected and bright. And though I have space for them both in my finished basement and two wide-open living rooms, they’ve chosen the pull of salt air. A beach town, somewhere far from my woods and wild things. She tells me often, half-laughing, that she wishes she could take me with her. That if I had wheels, I’d be packed already. But we both know I belong here. Rooted. Waiting. She’s left me better than she found me. New kitchen. Refinished wood floors that are even prettier than they were in 1963. A fresh coat of paint, she made me feel young again. I’ve loved her. Quietly, completely. I held her joy, her quiet tears, her music drifting through open windows. I watched her heal. I watched her hope. Now, I wait—with open doors, for the next story. The next family to find me. To fall in love again. Don't miss the YouTube cinematic walk-through of this stunning mid-century ranch (search 3270 Leslie Ct. on YouTube)
