It’s true, Betty did tell Benjamin to strip the wall to its original beauty. That doesn’t mean she clawed her way out of the grave, or whispered sweet color palettes to him while they threw clay on a potter’s wheel. This wasn’t Ghost. 

There were no flickering lights or rocking chairs seesawing on their own. It’s a peaceful house . . . now. But it hasn’t always been. In those first few months, Benjamin and I faced emotions under this roof that we never encountered in our marriage. There were times when we just had to stop and ask, “Why do we feel this way?” 

All the while, we had this sense that the house really longed to be stripped of dark antiquity and set free from a brokenness she carried within her walls. We wanted this home to have new stories to carry into future generations, stories of love, laughter, and light. 

So Benjamin gifted her with the same thing he had gifted our two homes before: His voice. Every morning and every night, Benjamin belts out songs that make me smile. I can only imagine how they make Betty feel, perhaps a bit giggly or maybe even mesmerized by the way the acoustics carry the sound like a cathedral. As Benjamin’s biggest fan, I’ve often recorded his songs without him even knowing, only to play them over and over when I need a little soul-lift.

He’s good like that, about seeing the need for music and light in a home, not just for us, but for all those who enter. Creating that element of radiance in a 137-year-old home would take us some time, especially since she had endured so much. 

Just as our 1950’s farmhouse transformed into a sweet charmer, this Victorian home too had a personality. She was confident, honest, independent, supportive, strong-willed, nurturing, and protective. If drama, negativity, resentment, jealousy, anger, hatred, or dishonesty entered the gates, eventually, she would purge it on her own accord. It’s as if she only wanted good, healthy, thriving things to live within her arms, and all the seeds that were planted would either blossom or die depending on the integrity of their roots. 

Of course we knew none of this when we moved onto the property. It wasn’t until month three that we started to read the signs, or at least hear about them. One morning while I was taking out the trash, a woman stopped to tell me something I never imagined a stranger would say to a new neighbor.

“My daughter and I have been praying a hedge of protection around this home since the day you arrived,” she said, without introducing herself. “It has a heavy past, and we’re asking God to shield you in this journey.”

I was still holding a poop bag, jaw to the floor, waiting for her to continue. Instead, she simply jogged away. 

Literally days later, we bought antique chairs at a yard sale but didn’t have a truck to transport them. A woman kindly offered to deliver them to us at no cost. 

She pulled up, we said our formal introductions, offloaded the chairs, and agreed to meet again at a future Brick n Barn show. As she drove toward the gate, she slammed on her breaks and waved me toward her truck.

“I gotta tell ya somethin’ honey,” she said. “You better be praying the blood of Jesus over this place. There’s a lot of cleansing you need to do here.”

Okay. So, clearly we hadn’t bought Little House on the Prairie. We knew that. Yet had we not spent so much time staring at the weeds, we might have noticed the clouds. 

They were dark, billowing, storm clouds that hit us out of nowhere, coming in the form of gossip we refused to defend, repairs we didn’t foresee, or people’s burdens we couldn’t carry. Benjamin told me to be a boss, not a friend, but I didn’t know how to separate the two roles at Brick n Barn. And so, I was in a constant state of both physical and emotional exhaustion. 

Between airing the home, praying for protection, and burning incense, we tried to cover all our cleansing bases. Each evening, Benjamin made a point to grab a shrub of dried sage and trace my body with wafts of the aromatic woodsy smoke. There I was, outstretched in the kitchen like a big “X” with Benjamin saying, “Out with the negative. In with the positive!”

I loved him for that. 

And then, the phone rang. On the other line was a woman who informed me that she had purchased a small table at our first show. Apparently she had stripped the piece of furniture as a project, but didn’t like it’s condition and wanted a refund. 

I explained that our first show was in partnership with the previous owner, and we had no control over inventory at that point. I went on to explain that all sales are final, which was written both on her receipt, and at the register. Regardless, I offered to reach out to the vendor and see if she would be willing to offer a refund or store credit. 

When the vendor refused to budge, it didn’t sit well with the customer. 

“That’s fine,” the customer said. “I’ll just leave a bad review for everyone to know who the new owners really are.”

The line went dead, and I began to panic. Having inspected literally thousands of restaurants and hotels for Fodor’s Travel Guides, I knew the power of reviews.

I told Benjamin what had happened, begging for insight on how to stop our first online review from being a negative one. 

“Let her,” he said. “Let her go ahead and do it. Our reputation will eclipse her words.”

Suddenly it was like my man was riding a unicorn, sprinkling glittery wisdom in his wake.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

He told me to trust him. So I did. 

Sure enough, she left a bad review, about the two of us in particular. Low and behold, right behind her post were a dozen people defending us as “one of the best things to happen to Valley Center.” 

What touched us most, is that we didn’t know a single one of them. These online angels stood up for us when we were at our weakest, tossing out a lifeline of hope. 

It didn't’ take long before the woman deleted her negative review, leaving us now with a new battle to face. Someone was stealing our Brick n Barn signs. Despite their simple design, a great deal of effort had gone into making them. Each was cut, painted, and assembled, then hand stenciled, and finally painted in block letters. 

These 10 deli-style signs were strategically placed at locations around town just days before each monthly show, and taken down just hours after each show was over. We never considered them invasive or offensive, but for some reason, our sign on Cole Grade Road was stolen not once, not twice, but three times. 

To say it bothered me was an understatement. I was downright pissed. Worst of all, I had no one to confront. Fortunately, back in the day, I had spent several years working as a professional investigative reporter in Hollywood. This of course means I’ll go to great lengths to uncover the truth. 

Twenty years later, that truth involved my flippin’ Brick n Barn signs in a rural town called Valley Center. And by God, I would find them.

To the streets I went, first to the two corner homes closest to where the signs went missing. At one home was an elderly couple that said they didn’t know who took the signs, but would gladly offer their yard as a safe alternative. 

No one was at the second home, so I left my card and a letter explaining the purpose of my visit. If nothing else, I wanted to look the perpetrator in the eye. Later that day, a truck pulled into our driveway. Out stepped a gentleman explaining he had received my card and letter. He too knew nothing about the signs, but offered to mount a security camera on his fence so we could find the thief. I was loving this community more by the second. 

From there, I posted ads on Facebook and Next Door. Since it fell under the topic of “criminal activity,” Next Door requested a description of parties in question. So I took the liberty to write the following:

Male / Female: Possibly Both

Hair Color: douchey

Eyes: Douchey

Weight: Douchey

Height: Douchey 

Clothing: Douchey

It must have touched a nerve, because a week later we received an anonymous email through our website reading:

“If you don’t want someone stealing your signs, stop blocking people’s vision.”  

It was literally signed “Anonymous.” 

Whether that was the thief or not, we’ll never know. The fact that the person toyed with us just got me fixated on finding out their identity. So, we did what any crazy antique shop owners would do. We paid a third party to reverse search the email address, and then wrote that person back directly by name and address. Not only did we request the return of our signs, we also invited the person to attend our next show at Brick n Barn, and enjoy coffee on us. 

The person’s radio silence spoke volumes. We never did get those signs back. The good news is that was the last time a sign went missing. 

Between jumping these mini hurdles, we faced greater challenges like the master bedroom. After conquering the staircase, Benjamin tackled our bedroom, which happens to be the only room on the second level. In a turret of its own, it had such great potential but needed a vision and elbow grease. 

After we cleaned every square inch of the room, two layers of wallpaper were peeled off by hand. Then came the patching of holes and cracks, followed by painting all the walls and ceiling white. 

As the ultimate labor of love, Benjamin scraped off the old, dirty paint from the floors to expose the original plank wood. Like a true artist, he left specs of white to give the floor a rustic look. 

In the dead of heat, from sunup to sundown, Benjamin could be found dripping with sweat, delicately chipping away at those fragile floors. The outcome was extraordinary, especially when he sealed them with polyurethane. Lastly, came the plumbing. With a tiny toilet already in place, he wanted to add a sink with both hot and cold water. 

Benjamin will be the first to tell you he hates doing plumbing and electrical work. So, with the help of our dear neighbor Larry, the two ran copper piping through the attic and into our bedroom so we could do something as luxurious as brush our teeth. 

It was small, but precious as far as washrooms go. And just like that, one room at a time, we were bringing love, laughter, and light back into that home. 

That’s when I heard Benjamin ask me the single most bizarre question in our 12 years together.

“Why is there birdshot in our bedroom ceiling?”

Next story on "Channeling Betty" coming soon.