This was my frame of mind six years ago when we had a baby on the way, shopping bags stuffed full of outstanding bills, Stephen's arm was in a sling from a fall off a widow-maker ladder, and our first home was a fixer-upper that anyone in their right mind would have leveled on sight. 

We spied potential in this two-story structure out in the country that had been mistreated by previous tenants, motorcycle gangs that used a gutted van for target practice and tenants who treated part of the upper story as its landfill for fast-food wrappers and diapers. Carpet throughout the house had been a litter box to someone's pets, graffiti graced the upper balcony, and every inch of the yard was landscaped with mattress skeletons and endless mounds of broken glass and debris. The outer wall of the bottom story was constructed of rocks, and at one time, someone decided to tack on the second story, using wood siding. From its pitched roof you can see the manmade lake, which is about a ten-minute walk away through a narrow trail managed by the Corps of Engineers. 

But this was our house. Our home. It was decided that Stephen, with his construction experience, would quit his job to work on the house while we stretched my paycheck in the most creative ways. Stephen tackled the project with a vengeance, hauling away years of abuse. He pulled out ancient plumbing and hazardous wiring, exposing rotting 2X4s and black insulation encrusted with dirt-dobber nests. Friends and family who were electricians and plumbers helped us out in exchange for beer, barbecue, and any help that Stephen could give them on their properties. 

Stephen painstakingly replaced the archaeological evidence of wild parties past in the yard with truckloads of nutrient-rich soil. Black gold, he called it. Soon it was apparent that although the war was far from over, battles had been won. Curious neighbors meandered to our end of the world, our Oliver Oasis, to comment on the astonishing transformation. "Been years since we've seen flowers in this yard," they'd say, renewing our determination. 

From the very beginning, we underestimated the magnitude of this project, both financially and emotionally, and with the pressure of having a baby on top of all this, our marriage often tap-danced on thin ice. It was our dreams, however, on those scraps of paper, the dimensions of each room carefully detailed in pencil, that fueled us. Every nuance in this house, from the baseboards to the archways, was going to be a reflection of us. Even if it meant washing dishes with a garden hose in the front yard in the meantime and substituting a hotplate for a stove, we were not going to let this house, along with our dreams, die.

 And then one day, Alice happened. "Excuse me, sir," the woman said, approaching my father-in-law, who had come to help us out for a spell. "Yes?" He was in the middle of re-screening a door. "Do you own this house?" "No, my son does." "Oh. I was wondering if he'd be interested in the lot next door." "Well, he doesn't have much money." "I want to give it away." My father-in-law's jaw dropped. "Did you just say, 'give it away?'" "Yes. My husband has recently passed away, and that lot is my only link to Texas." "Where do you hail from?" "Louisiana." "How on earth did you come by this land?" "My husband and I built this house." His jaw dropped again. "Why don't you come in and join me for some tea? Let's get out of this sun." 

Stephen came home from the store and sat in utter amazement as he listened to her story. Alice and her husband had acquired the three lots back in 1962 and built the first house in the area with rocks they dug up from the land. It was a simple one-story structure with a flat roof upon which they spent many evenings with binoculars, quietly admiring the deer, rabbits, and other wildlife that shared their habitat. Then when they saw signs of civilization threatening their world in the form of bulldozers and builders, the young couple sold the house and two lots, thinking that eventually they would have some use for the remaining lot. 

"And now all I've done is rack up three years worth of taxes on the darn property," she said. "Things just haven't been the same since my husband died." "Well, I'll tell you what," Stephen said. "I'll pay those taxes. And I'm paying for your bus trip home." "Oh, you don't need to bother with the taxes and the bus fare. I just want to get rid of the property." "There is no such thing in this world as a free lunch, ma'am." She began to cry softly. "N-no one," she hiccupped through her tears. "No one has ever been this nice to me, young man. God bless you." "Oh, you are such a sweetie," he said, tears welling up in his eyes as he enveloped her in a hug. After all the paperwork was completed, Alice boarded the bus, never to be heard from again.

 Every year we send a Christmas card to Alice along with a newsy letter. We tell her about the fruit trees that Stephen has planted on that lot. We give her a progress report on the house. We tell her about the three boys we've had since her visit. This year we will tell her about a daughter who has joined our family. We never hear from Alice, but we will always write her. We will write her until the day our mail to her is returned to us. 

Alice, if you are reading this, God bless you. God bless you and the gift you gave our family. Our Oliver Oasis is complete because of you. And I promise, God, that I will never question your plan again.

written by

Jennifer Oliver