![]() ![]() When I looked at the big wheels, designed like giant shut off valves, that drove the gear to open and close the rooftop panels, I decided then and there, I must own one. When the buyer asked what the wires running longways just inside the side windows were for- I instinctively blurted out that they were there to hold hanging pots. There was a cool chandelier hanging from the middle of the room, and in my mind, I pictured a long narrow wooden table with friends gathered around, the warm sounds of a summer night outside, and the refined style of a greenhouse dinner party. I walked into this greenhouse and fell in love. It might be bigger, but that’s what it feels like to me. ![]() Not little like those odd curved glass ones that people stuck on the sides of their houses in mass quantities from the 50’s through the 80’s, rather a relatively small greenhouse that might measure 12 x 22. The property, complete with lakefront pier, ridiculously beautiful house, a private tennis court and swimming pool, also hosted a magnificent little greenhouse. I didn’t know about Lord and Burnham greenhouses, nor did I fully understand how badly I needed one, until I wrote a contract on a beautiful mini-estate on the south shore of Geneva earlier this month. Not a giant greenhouse with that weird slightly green tint to the windows, but a small, classic, old, reclaimed greenhouse, made by none other than Lord and Burnham Company. Greenhouse? Seriously? Yes, greenhouse, and yes, seriously. My gums are bleeding not from gingivitis, but from an overwhelming desire to own my own glass building where I can tend to my crops in January as easily as I could in July. It is with this knowledge, that I must announce to you today, in this column, that I, David Curry, want a greenhouse. I don’t covet my neighbors wife, I just tend to covet my neighbors houses. And so it is, to be me, is to be forever wanting. I lived in an old stone cottage with curved stone archways gracing the first floor, and I desired the crisp clean lines of classic shingle style architecture. I moved to a place in the country, surrounded by trees and chirping birds, and wanted to be in an open field where my one-day-orchard could thrive. I lived in a new house in Geneva National, and longed for an old cottage by the water. Nothing against the house, as I’ve lived in some fanciful houses in my short life, it’s just that I always want something else. Whatever type of house I happen to be living it at the moment is no longer the house I want to be living in. I can explain it easily though, in one concise sentence. Sadly, instead of being normal, my tendency to move every 12-20 months is just downright odd. If only my appetite for real estate was shared by the rest of the world, perhaps then I would have made a solid career choice. If my particular affliction was shared by more, Realtors would replace investment bankers as the Evil Rich Guys, and never again would I have to buy my son the generic brand bike from Walmart- as I shamefully did last night (this generation’s lame bike isn’t a Huffy). If it were, I would be resting peacefully in some lakefront estate right now, while a bountiful contingent of house maids and pamperers waited on my every imagined need. This form of real estate ADD is, unfortunately, not contagious. Among my many variations of undiagnosed ADD is a rare hybrid form of real estate ADD. ![]()
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