I love old homes. I love everything about them. I love the stone-work, the wood-work, the brick-work, the shutters, the doors, the door-knobs, the windows, the window-panes, the fancy molding, the spindles on the porches. What more can I say? I absolutely love old homes.

Not to mention, I have this horrible habit of purchasing architectural elements from old homes. It must be some sort of compulsion, because I just can’t help myself. In my garage at this very moment, I have four old doors, three old chandeliers, a handful of glass doorknobs, some swirly-pane windows… As a matter of fact, I could probably build my own old house from scratch.

Naturally, when I started metal detecting, I became even more aware of these old properties. Eventually, I developed this little voice in my head. He doesn’t have a name yet, but this is what he sounds like: “I wonder what they have buried in their front yard? Would they give me permission if I knocked on their door? Are they friendly? Are they crazy?” He just keeps yapping on and on until I come across the next potential property.

A few weeks ago, I picked my son up from daycare and we set off on one of our epic adventures. For those of you who missed my previous post, our epic adventures consist of driving around aimlessly in search of old houses. Just like trained my son to spot yard-sales in the Summer, I’ve trained him to spot old houses.

On this particular adventure, we happened upon an old stone mill. I had passed this mill a dozen times before, but never since I bought my metal detector. This time was different. The little voice started talking–the one in my head, not the one helping me spot old houses. I started to notice the enormous trees and the winding creek. This was the most perfect spot to detect. All the elements were there–the trees, the structure, the winding creek.

We had found the property. Our next goal was to assess ownership. This particular property gave no obvious clues as to who owned it. A holiday wreath pinned to the door indicated that someone cared enough about this old mill to dress it up. We just had to figure out who.

We started down the street and a neighbor just so happened to be retrieving her mail. We stopped and I asked about the old mill. She informed us that the owners lived across the street from the mill. And not only was this woman kind enough to send us off in the right direction, but she also invited us to detect her 1840s property. Not bad. Not bad at all.

I have shared in earlier posts that I really struggle with asking permission face-to-face. I could write letters all day. The truth of the matter is that when it comes to speaking face-to-face or even over the phone, I get all tongue-tied and anxious.

I assessed the handsome stone house before I drove up the driveway. I probably wouldn’t have given it a second thought on any other day, but today I had my little bompster strapped in the back seat. I liked what I saw–professional landscaping, a jungle gym in the front yard, and a child’s bike on its side in the lawn. There were no shattered windows, broken shutters, or Halloween decorations still hung in the middle of January.

We parked in the driveway and I moved to get out. Guess who wanted to come along? I hesitated. I’m not usually an overly-cautious person, but you never know what you will find on some back road in rural PA. I did finally pull him out of the car-seat and we knocked on the door.

At this point, I’m nervous. When my letters and emails are met with rejection, I am able to process the rejection in my own space. When I knock on a door and ask someone face-to-face, I am forced to deal with the rejection right there. For those of you who don’t know me… I do not deal well with confrontation of any kind. I’m most likely to burst into tears.

Now I find myself standing at this strangers door with my four-year-old. We knock. A few moments pass before a woman comes to the door and wrestles back a gorgeous blue heeler. I start to open my mouth and what does my little bompster bluer out? “Can we metal detect here?” Now, who can say no to an adorable little four-year-old with the remnants of a blue raspberry flavored lollipop still on his mouth. Um… no one.

I got permission to the mill–which is circa 1765–and as soon as the snow melts, I’m going to be hitting it with my little guy in tow. He is a master metal detectorist in training.

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Happy Hunting!!