Normally I write about the North Shore of Chicago, which is market I serve in my real estate practice. This is not a post about the North Shore. It’s a post about Robin Hill, my childhood home in the Greenspring Valley outside of Baltimore. My family lived there for over thirty years. My parents bought it when I was a year old and I spent my childhood freely roaming its ten acres and the surrounding woods and fields. I loved that house and everything it represented, and I cried all the way back to Chicago the last time I saw it before it was sold. Sometimes I think the reason I ended up in real estate was because of my love affair with my family home.
Later, after the people that bought it had spent months and a considerable amount of money remodeling the house, they invited all of us over to see what they had done. I just couldn’t make myself go. My sisters proclaimed that the new owners had done a marvelous job of keeping our home’s character while bringing it into the current century. But I didn’t want anything to dilute those precious memories of home.
Now that time has softened my sadness I am able to see my old home, savor my memories of it and appreciate how this family has made it their own. Now it’s time for them to move on and it’s on the market again.
For me the best part about living at Robin Hill was the surrounding property. The house was perched on a hill with four terraces leading down to a wide sloping lawn and a stream where I spent countless hours catching salamanders and crayfish and building dams. When I was a little girl my Dad built me a swing and a playhouse down by the stream (far left in the picture above) and my friends and I would sleep down there on summer nights, pretending that we were pioneers or frontiersman.
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