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It’s unrequited love. That’s the only way to explain what happens when we fall in love with a house we don’t own. One we’ll probably never own.

I know the feeling well.

When I was a young girl I walked to school each morning past a pair of beautiful old houses. They were identical in every way. Tall, white pillared and stately, the houses had been built by a wealthy businessman as wedding gifts for his daughters at the turn of the last century.

I used to imagine owning one of the houses, my sister the other. We would be able to call to one another from the little balcony that ran around the upper floor, I imagined. Our children would run from one house to the other, equally at home in either place.

I didn’t just love those houses. I ached to have one for my own.

It was a wish that didn’t come true. And, like so many wishes made when we’re young, it’s a good thing.

My life took me far away from that city. And the street where the house sat is not such a pretty place anymore. Time hasn’t been kind. I imagine the houses, if they’re still there, aren’t the showplaces they once were.

When you think about it, carrying a torch for a house is a lot like any crush. You get the best part of being in love without having to deal with the reality. No mortgage or mice. No leaky faucet or rattling furnace.

You get all the fantasy without a broken heart.

This week in Home

Some houses are not just buildings. They are landmarks. George French’s big white house on the edge of Manito Park is just such a place. This week’s cover feature takes you inside a house that does as much to slow park-side traffic as any posted speed limit.

This is the last issue of Home before Christmas. So we’ve filled it with beautiful photos and interesting stories about local homes and the people who care for them.

Feel free to fall in love.

Happy Holidays