A short ride down the hillside into the hallow we found a quaint two-story house, unoccupied yet accompanied by the realtor and her blue station wagon. She waited for us on the dirt path leading up to the porch from the patchy stone drive. She was curious, as they all are when we go hunting, what interest we would have in such a house as this.
The exterior was unusual for the type of home we usually search out, and I was fearful that we had wasted our trip. In the lawn of scrub grass we found the large rusted rim of a large vehicle that had at one time served as a planter, but now made itself home for only the most hardy weeds that grow in this brisk mid-October climate. Only a few odd adornments littered the outer walls of the house near its cinder block pilings - a one-wheeled and tubeless bicycle, several cans of obviously unused all-weather paint, three sledgehammer handles.