Both avid history buffs, Joe and I talked about almost nothing but the house for the next two days. In addition to its history, Joe expressed his appreciation for the nuts and bolts of the house, the quality of its construction, its size, and the acreage…Equally obsessed and irresistibly drawn to the house despite the work it needed and the asking price, I called the agent to ask if we could see it again the following weekend. By the end of that sunny Saturday afternoon walk-through, I had fallen hard for Stratton Hall. Saturated with history, full of character, possessing architectural beauty, and boasting a cinematic setting, what was there not to love about the house? Like a teenager with a crush, I was blind to the house’s flaws. The rosy fog of infatuation provided a shrugging reassurance all could be fixed, accepted or even ignored. I wasn’t going to let evidence of necessary and potentially expensive repairs overwhelm and spoil my excitement. At least at first. As it turned out, there would be plenty of time for that later. Why didn’t I run from the crumbling plaster, missing steps, the fire-damaged rooms, and the scary cellar? Why was I so attracted to the old house?
Excerpt from Stratton Hall: A House With A Name