Post-Landing Reflections
I showed up at Grandview this summer with big dreams. Inspired to take on this project that was larger than life in every way. Eager to tackle the challenge of settling my two young kids in a new region - a new climate, a new town… new everything. Ready, I thought, to face yet unforeseen challenges. I didn’t think of it as overconfidence… it felt more like ambition. I had a long list, a vision for how the season would unfold, and a fundamental belief that with enough effort and positive intent, everything would more or less go according to plan.
The decision to move here wasn’t a whim. It was the culmination of years of rethinking what we wanted our life to feel like. We were ready to trade the rhythm of the city for something slower, wilder, more honest. We wanted trees instead of traffic. Stars instead of streetlights. A place where the kids could roam and learn, where my work could feel more grounded, and where the work we did collectively could serve a deeper purpose. We came here to live closer to the land, to each other, and to ourselves.
And we found the perfect place to do it.
Grandview is… ridiculous. In the best ways — and a few not-so-best ones, too. It’s oversized, overgrown, under-maintained, and full of history. A house with real personality. The kind of place that deserves the attention you’d give a wooden boat or a vintage truck: systems logs, maintenance records, and a bit of storytelling. I wanted to create something like a house manual. Maybe a blog. Something that didn’t just track what we fixed and how we fixed it, but why we we were doing it at all in the first place. I don’t mean to be dramatic. It’s just a house. But as far as houses go, this one is a character. And to me, if there’s worth in doing anything at all in this life, then there’s worth in doing this.
Another interesting aspect to this project is that the house has genuinely unique roots. It was once owned by Curt Gowdy, who died in 2006 but was one of the most iconic sportscasters of the last century — the voice of the MLB, the NFL, the Super Bowl, the Olympics, and literally just about everything else that requires an announcer. He was also the host of The American Sportsman, a show that combined hunting and fishing with down-to-earth storytelling. It had this old school, slow, almost philosophical quality in how it explored the relationship between people and place. Really interesting show, honestly. I didn’t know the name when I bought the house, but the more I’ve learned about him since, the more impressed I’ve become with the guy. From the perspective of the project, this history just adds more depth to a project that was already full of it, which is really exciting.
My understanding is that we also might be the first family to use house as a full-time home. Everyone before us seems to have treated it as an occasional retreat, and for a time it was mothballed and tied up in an old estate. In the years between owners, it mostly seems to have sat idle. Maintained, but unimproved. Waiting. The kitchen appliances, for example, all turn 30 years old next year. But they’re the kind of appliances you see in a commercial kitchen, so they still work perfectly and can be repaired when they break.
My plan for the summer felt pretty simple:
Tame and maintain the land. Revive the gardens. Manage the pool. Clean up the tennis court. Restore the sunroom. Patch the plaster. Paint the walls. Replace the furnace. Upgrade the electrical panel. Build a coffee table. Maybe a treehouse. Split some wood. Oh — and work full-time, make friends, and help the kids settle into a completely new world.
Somehow, that felt realistic.
But Grandview had other plans. And it didn’t take long for the house — and life — to remind us that we are in control of far less than we think we are.
Before the mechanical systems failed (and they did — spectacularly), the health issues started. Within weeks, half of our family, including our three-year-old son, contracted Lyme disease. Never found a tick despite daily checks. No bullseye rash. Just strange symptoms that didn’t make sense… until they did.
Because the house had been empty for so long, the property had become home to everything from deer and turkeys to raccoons, mice, wasps, and black bears. The ones who could fit through the cracks were inside, too. One of them likely carried a tick that was too small or too fast to find. And despite nightly checks, we missed it — not just the bite, but the early symptoms. For reference, my wife is a Mayo Clinic trained RN and I’m and EMT with plenty of wilderness experience. We’re not idiots. But we completely missed it. By the time the diagnosis came a few weeks later, we were looking at systemic Lyme.
We got them on antibiotics as quickly as we could, and they both completed an extended treatment protocol. Both of them are Lyme free and near fully recovered now, but it changed the texture of our summer; physically, neurologically, and emotionally. Every plan, every project, every priority was reshuffled overnight. The projects didn’t stop. The list kept growing, but the pace slowed. We did what we could, when we could, and we tried to meet each day where it found us.
This house has a way of teaching you what matters, whether you’re ready or not. It doesn’t respond to ego. It doesn’t care about your schedule. But it does reward presence. Curiosity. Flexibility. The willingness to start over every single morning, and to keep showing up, even when the work gets messy… honestly, especially when it gets messy.
That’s why this blog exists. Not to show off progress, or to perform. Just to document the process: the real, humbling, hands-in-the-dirt work of learning this place, fixing what we can, and writing it down for whoever comes next.
The Grandview Project isn’t just about restoration. It’s about recalibration. Of a house… and of a life.
And this was the summer that started it all.
