The story below is a preview from our September/October 2017 issue. For the full story Subscribe today, view our FREE interactive digital edition or download our FREE iOS app!
A young couple finally finds the home they want, and begins to settle in. But within a few months, two sets of visitors combine to create a whole new level of appreciation for the home and our city.
Finally, we had found it. My wife Dana and I stood in front of the brick ranch we had just purchased as our realtor snapped a picture of us for Facebook. The house is deceivingly spacious, although it has 2,700 square feet of livable space. It took three years of searching to find our home and would take only three months before it was filled with seven complete strangers . . .
Dana works at The Peaks of Otter Lodge and the general manager decided it prudent to overstaff the lodge and restaurant in October, as leaf-season color tends to flood the lodge with foliage enthusiasts.
DNC, the company operating The Peaks of Otter Lodge, also manages several restaurants at Turner Field, the home of the Atlanta Braves. The restaurant staff at Turner Field was laid off until the start of the 2017 season and they were invited to Bedford to work. I never could have imagined that the Braves mediocrity and failure to make it to the playoffs would have an impact on our living situation. The problem was the lodge at the Peaks was sold out in October; no spare rooms, even for temporary employees.
And so, to the ranch they came.
In our marriage, I’m the one double-checking the locks on the door before bed each night and periodically testing the smoke alarms. Dana would gladly sleep with the front door open and throw a chicken in the oven just before tucking in at night. So for Dana, the idea was a no-brainer. “Why wouldn’t we have complete strangers live with us to help us with the mortgage? We have plenty of space!”
For me, the proposition was maniacal, at least initially. I pictured the house destroyed in a fit of unprovoked rage on the part of any one of our houseguests, on no particular October night. Items would surely go missing. I thought of installing a chain lock on our bedroom door, even a chain lock on the door leading from the finished basement to the kitchen.
Our office upstairs was turned into a bedroom for our guests, along with our basement, as cots were brought in from the lodge. Our guests arrived in shifts, each scheduled to start in the kitchen at the lodge on different days. I tried my best to stay out of the basement—sure, to grant our guests privacy, but more to escape the entanglement of sheets and luggage and stray clothes that five people living together in close proximity create; out of sight, out of mind.
Once I realized everyone staying was genuinely appreciative of us opening our home to them, I was less concerned with being murdered and more concerned with them experiencing all that Roanoke has to offer. The Atlanta 7, a term we coined for them after they left, brought a sense of adventure with them that we had been missing since we bought the house. Our days had revolved around improving the layout, the decor, the functionality—any and every aspect of the house had occupied us.
Acting as city guides to the Atlanta crew instilled a newfound appreciation for us for our hometown. Roanoke’s small size was a big change of pace for them, especially the traffic, or lack thereof compared to downtown Atlanta; I had taken this ease of travel for granted. We showed them our eclectic restaurants and of course hiked Mill Mountain to see the star. They convinced us to get out on the weekends and spend a few nights downtown. Some of the Atlanta 7 worked day shifts at the Peaks; others worked at night so the house never felt crowded. Things were going well, smoothly even, and I felt comfortable, until we got a knock on the door.
It was about 8:30 p.m. Pitch black. I heard Dana talking with an unfamiliar female voice, who she was having trouble understanding. I locked eyes with Dana as I passed through the hallway; her eyes screamed, “Get over here, NOW.”
The woman at the door was older, her hair coal black, obviously dyed. Her mumble, combined with her unblinking eyes, not to mention Halloween just around the corner, created an eerie effect. I watched her hands, making sure she didn’t reach for a weapon now that she was in the front door. Hearing unfamiliar voices at the door, our Atlanta roommate upstairs, Shallette, retreated to her room thinking it was my parents and not wanting to intrude.
“Maybe, maybe my husband can come take a look at the house?” the woman continued as she motioned towards the car idling in our driveway. “We just want to see what it looks like now.”
Her husband spoke more clearly and explained to us in the foyer that they had owned the home prior to the last owner. He walked us through the house and explained the renovations they had done themselves, like the deck on the back, and the skylights in the kitchen and bathroom. He then answered some of our looming questions, like the massive hole in the cement foundation now covered with a metal plate. “That was the A.C. unit – one of the first of its kind in Roanoke to be able to cool a home from one central location.”
An hour and a half later, we waved goodbye and thanked the former owners for stopping in and essentially, giving us a tour of our home. They admitted their reluctance to just “pop by,” fearing that we, the new owners, would not be receptive to their curiosity. They seemed pleased with what we had done in such a short span of time. We felt good knowing that the couple, who had poured their heart and soul into the house some 30 years prior, felt it was now in good hands.
Hearing the door close, our Atlanta roommate ducked into the living room and we explained what had just happened, how at first we thought the woman, the stranger at the door might be a serial killer, but turned out to be friendly and interesting.
“I can’t believe you guys just let her in here,” she said. “I mean, what if she really did want to rob you? You guys are way too trusting. You never know!”
Dana and I exchanged a smile, but she was right. You never can truly be sure, about anything really. We sat down on the couches in the living room: me, Dana, and Shallette, a former stranger from Atlanta, and planned out what she still needed to experience in Roanoke before heading back home.
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