Sandy Springs: Still got big love for my li’l home
I went a’wandering our little burg last week, to see if there were any vestiges of that next big real estate boom, circa 2005. The one more fizz than boom. I wish I’d brought that Horatio gent and his CSI bag of facilities, because all “boom” evidence has disappeared.
It was only five years ago we beheld the signs of Sandy Springs getting a face-lift — a handful of homes were bought, razed and replaced with McMansions. Some looked at this, then at their old home, and thought they saw the hand of God.
The Almighty seemed to be holding a big wad of cash. What the new homes were selling for was a secondary issue compared to what current homeowners believed they might get for essentially selling their dirt to developers.
While some were seduced before the hint of a feeler, many pondered what we’d do if we got the chimerical offer we couldn’t refuse.
We weren’t actively looking for a buyer, but curiosity has a habit of stealthily slipping in the backdoor and assuming residence.
We sort of figured a price, which led to the thought of where we’d go if the impossible became adventitious. Then something happened.
The more we thought about what we’d be leaving the less appealing the lure of a quick money grab. Suddenly it was going to take a healthy seven figures to root us out.
Then, as we all know, the economy took it in the neck and all this became moot. Happily some lessons were learned. Be it ever so humble, be it ever to have such tiny closets and be it ever to have a kitchen in drastic need of remodeling, there is truly no place like home. Especially ours.
When the dogs run down the hall they invariably brush the plastic beads hanging outside Amelia’s bedroom, and I remember how tickled she was the day we hung them.
They also make a noise when she visits from college and comes home in the wee hours — that reassuring noise signaling I can completely go to sleep.
The view from the front windows provide a panoramic vista of the front yard, which served as a baseball diamond and football stadium for Zach at age 5.
The record books have been divested, but I will attest that in 18 years since, no one has eclipsed his marks for home runs and touchdowns.
Out back are Carol’s gardens, which began humbly as a 10-by-20 patch in the backyard while we were courting. In the ensuing years they dotted the landscape, then joined together, had fountains and fish ponds installed, and reflect her boundless passion for growing things. Moving that alone would humble Hercules.
Our temperate 3B/2B ranch creaks and groans, the pipes occasionally make a godawful cacophony and something always needs repair.
But it is our home. And as long as it is a home, and not a house, kindly keep those checkbooks closed.
Jim Osterman lives in Sandy Springs. Reach him at jimosterman@rocketmail.com
