Beaver Dam or Bust

Some people believe in serendipity—that life lines things up just right and you fall into the perfect moment. I’m not sure I buy into that. For me, things usually come together through effort, patience, and timing. And yet… sometimes the outcome feels so right, it’s hard not to wonder if a little serendipity snuck in anyway. That’s how we ended up finding our home in Beaver Dam.

We’d always said we’d move closer to family once we started our own. We began in Memphis, then moved to Chicago, then Sun Prairie—closer and closer. Eventually, it was time to go all the way: Beaver Dam.

At the time, I worked at the family business, and Tom had a good job in Madison. He was used to commuting, so the move made sense. A realtor friend met us to tour homes in our price range—translation: old fixer-uppers.

But we didn’t show up alone. My mom came to every showing. And at one house, Grandma Doris popped up unexpectedly from the basement. That’s all I remember from that visit—her ghostly entrance, unannounced and slightly surreal.

We toured several homes. I saw potential in all of them; Tom mostly saw massive projects. One house had wood siding that looked like someone had slapped brown paint over rotted planks. Inside, the renters lived in chaos—kids in diapers ran wild through clutter and noise.

Another had hunter green tile throughout the kitchen. While I love green—even hunter green—that was a bold commitment. And that white grout? Absolutely not. The real dealbreaker: no garage and a busy street.

Then we found it.

A red brick foursquare with a bonnet-style dormer, right in the heart of town. The moment we walked in, the fresh white walls and soft cream carpet made everything feel light. Thick, gorgeous wood trim framed the house like it was something special. The living room had a wood-burning fireplace. The kitchen offered high-quality pull-out shelving, a built-in desk, and a wet bar. Upstairs: three bedrooms and a walk-up attic. And the windows—everywhere.

The master bedroom had four huge windows that overlooked the old Catholic church. On Sunday mornings, we’d lie in bed and watch people rush out as the church bells rang, darting into cars and waiting taxis. It felt like a still life in motion.

While we stood in the living room, Tom spread his arms wide, spun slowly in a circle, and said, “I love it. I love it. I love it.”

We later learned the house had been on the market for weeks. The olive green carpet and drab walls had scared buyers off. But we were the first to walk in after it had been repainted and re-carpeted. It wasn’t magic—but it was the right place, at the right time, with the right eyes. If serendipity had anything to do with it, it wore beige paint and a “Home For Sale” sign.

We made an offer. It was accepted immediately.

We were home.

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