Why Vermont? The $64,000 question answered
“The ache for home lives in all of us, the safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned.” —Maya Angelou
I took a photo from my tiny kitchen window yesterday. In the foreground was a vase my friend Leslie gave me. In the background, two cows, Pie and Princess, staring out at me from the nearby field.
An hour later, after a trip to the nearby hardware store, I got caught in a traffic jam behind a large green tractor driven by a young blond woman wearing a tank top. Just another summer day in the neighborhood.
I'm not in Kansas anymore...but rather in Tunbridge, Vermont, a long, long way from the Bay Area, the place I called home for nearly 30 years.
I saw our new house for the first time in real life after driving 3000 miles across the country with my husband David and dog Izzie in a 26’ truck filled with a lifetime of belongings.
Izzie and David in our 26' Penske moving truck
Yes, we’d seen the photos, videos, and walking tours, but as we all know, it’s VERY different when you’re actually there. Mind you, I’m the type of person who gets anxious about buying a pair of shoes if they’re non-returnable. Buying a house without seeing it, well, it felt like I’d just jumped off a cliff. A really big one. Without knowing if there was water below, or sharks, or craggy rocks... We’re apparently not alone in this craziness. Nearly half of homebuyers are in the same boat as us.
The 38+ acre property, with an 1882 red barn (photographed for Vermont Country Living below), a house built in 1832, and even a guest cottage was purchased for about the same price as a broom closet in our former neighborhood. I’m exaggerating slightly, but not as much as you’d think…which leads me to the ever-looming question, “Why Vermont?”
Truth is, if you asked me a year ago, or even six months ago, about the possibility of moving across the country to a place I’d never seen, I would’ve probably pshawed it. But as the saying goes, “Life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans.”
I never planned to leave California, nor did I plan to sell the house that took us more than two years to build in Berkeley. But the costs, coupled with the Recession, forced us to sell at a heartbreaking loss and move to Texas for two years for David’s work. When we returned to Berkeley two years later, I felt like Rip van Winkle. Gone was the soft, accessible housing market. In its stead was a frantic, multi-bidding war. Tech bros moved in as artists moved out, driving up the sales prices and competition to unprecedented levels.
We thought we’d wait it out, stay in place until things calmed down a bit. Instead of returning to something resembling normalcy, a housing crisis arose. The realization that we could no longer afford to buy a house in the place we’d called home struck me around the same time my older son Noah left for college, spurring a personal crisis in 2017 that left me in a constant state of panic, wondering what to do, where to go, how to find a place with ample room for my family. There was no easy answer.
We ended up staying in our rental home, a mid-century abode David dubbed “The Frank Lloyd Wrong House” for nine years. And truth be told, wonderful things arose from the experience—a stunning view that never ceased to amaze, kind and supportive neighbors, proximity to a close-knit dog park community, and a path (known as Ye Olde School Trail) that proved to be a saving grace during COVID. Plus, the boys loved living there.
As much as I tried to make it our own, I felt like a potted plant, unable to root. Knowing we could be told to leave at any time, coupled with the cost of ever-increasing rent over the years, I knew our living situation was unsustainable.
So we began to look. And look. And look. We hired a realtor in the nearby area, who alerted us that houses were going for upwards of 50% over already inflated asking prices (more recently there was a two bedroom that went for 90% over asking price). We looked with a realtor up north, fixers at “rock bottom” prices of $995k. We looked even further afield, but then began to worry about fire danger and summer heat. I even considered a house in Berkeley offered at $1.15 million that had $160k in pest reports and was slanting to one side. Crazy, I know. The Bay Area has a way of sucking you in and warping your perspective.
We then began exploring potential properties outside the Bay Area, starting with Denver, which is equidistant via plane between California and my home state of Ohio (where my parents, sister and her kids still live). We put bids on a handful of places, only to be outbid time and again. Last January we went for the gusto on a lovely house with no garage and teensy garden, only to be outbid by $325K. Prices increased 20% shortly thereafter, pushing us out of the running in appealing neighborhoods. We were forced to reconsider our options yet again.
Then interest rates rose. And rose again. “We’re running out of time,” said David. “The window of opportunity is closing.” The pressure was mounting. What to do?
“How about Vermont?” asked David’s friend Rubi, who bought a former girls' horseback riding camp in Vermont and transformed it into a hemp farm with her family while continuing to work as a consultant. Like-minded people, beautiful scenery, drivability to Ohio (sorta kinda), Bernie…We entertained the idea, but tepidly. Then we happened upon a house in Woodstock. The main room was reminiscent of the house we built. The place was charming, spacious, the nicest we’d seen in eons.
“I want to bid on it,” said David, but I couldn’t pull the trigger. The thought of moving across the country from friends and family felt unbearable to me. But David was intrigued. He booked a flight to Vermont, stayed in an AirBnB, and ventured out on his own. He returned, filled with excitement (and fresh maple syrup), but agreed the Woodstock house wasn’t the right place (no garage, no garden, and right in the village, which is now overrun by tourists).
I agreed to travel to Vermont after visiting family in Ohio that spring. We drove from Cleveland to Vermont at the height of mud season. The vistas were still lovely. The people were especially friendly. But there were absolutely no homes to tour. Not even one. So I figured that was that. Not meant to be.
After returning to the Bay Area, a few Vermont properties popped up, but nothing that captured our attention like the one on Drew Road. A charming red barn with heated office. A Cape Cod–style house. A high-ceilinged cottage. And 38+ acres of land, complete with current use permits (i.e., major tax reduction) and two giant solar panels. The owners clearly built this house to stay. We were able to see videos, but tours were booked throughout the weekend.
“There will probably be a lot of offers on this one,” our realtor warned. We finally toured the place that Monday late morning (mid-afternoon EST) via FaceTime, with a contractor David had met on his prior visit, and he agreed the property was exceptionally well-maintained, especially for a place that’s nearly two centuries old. Offers were due at 5:00 p.m. We had three hours to get our ducks in a row.
“We have to give them a no-contingency offer,” said David. That meant if our offer was accepted there would be no recourse. No take backs. No return. I didn’t know what to say. What were the alternatives? Live in our rental and pay hundreds of thousands of dollars over the next ten years, only to be left no further ahead than when we started? Keep waiting? I told David I needed a minute, so I walked out the house, only to realize I was wearing slippers, but I kept on walking. Lightning didn’t strike. God didn’t talk to me. There were no overt signs or symbols to steer me one way or the other.
I wavered (wobbled, worried, wept), but David was steadfast. “I really want this,” he said. So I held his hand and jumped. The next morning we learned our offer (one of five) was accepted.
Over the course of the next two months, I packed, pared down our belongings, and reminisced. I got together with friends as much as possible and revisited favorite spots. I grieved. I wrote. I prayed. I clung to the people and places I love, not wanting to leave.
There was something wonderful about sorting through a lifetime of memories, but it was also bittersweet. Leaving the last place my boys lived with us is something I never anticipated doing.
“You’re so intrepid,” said one friend about our seemingly dramatic move. “You’re such a nomad,” said another. Little do they know I’m neither—quite the opposite, in fact. I’m by nature a homebody who’s dreadful at change.
I loved the Bay Area. More than that, I loved my community and my cozy spot therein. I loved the fact that I could walk outside and see familiar faces, go for walks and have tea with friends, see my boys in an hour’s flight or a drive…and that they could return to a house that felt like home to them. However, the reality of ever owning a dwelling there was no longer a possibility, at least for now.
So here I am, unpacking boxes and trying to re-create a semblance of home.
So here we are. In Orange County, Vermont. As one resident said, “Rural, but not remote.” For me, this place still feels very far away, but thankfully David and Izzie are here. Noah and Aidan will be visiting soon, along with friends and hopefully more family. Plus there’s the phone and yes, Zoom. Thank goodness for Zoom.
Amy Krouse Rosenthal summarized (in rhyme) how to deal with anything:
Mope.
Cope.
Hope.
And so I am. Now I just need to find the floor.
I don't know how to comment as Dana (not Biscuit)! But anyway, this was a great read. Love the photos. I miss you!
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