4900 Little Road

4900 Little Road has been on my heart for almost a decade now.

I remember the exact evening I first saw it. I was leaving the ranch our horses were in training at, still dusty, still thinking about the rhythm of hooves in the arena, when I turned down a quiet stretch of road and saw what looked like a dream sitting at the very end.

A small 1887 farmhouse.

Weathered. Humble. Completely wrapped in the most magnificent live oak trees I had ever seen. The kind that stretch wide and low, protective and ancient, as if they are holding stories in their branches. It stopped me in my tracks.

The next day, while riding, I mentioned it, this dream property I had stumbled upon. I was told the owners would never sell. That it simply wasn’t available. I remember feeling crushed in a quiet, adult way. Not dramatic. Just that subtle closing of something you hadn’t realized you’d already begun hoping for.

But I kept driving past it. For years. Every time I would slow down just slightly, letting myself imagine what it would be like to live there. Gardens where there was brush. Children running under those oaks. A long wooden table outside. A house brought back to life slowly and intentionally. It never left me.

When we finally made the decision to move to Texas full time, I began looking for something small but unique. Something with trees. Something with history. Possibly a fixer upper. I have never been the kind of person who could settle into a cookie-cutter house on a treeless lot and feel inspired. I need character. I need land that feels alive. Not in a spoiled way, in a self-aware way. I know that my creativity is tied to my environment. I know that I build better when I am surrounded by something worth tending.

And then one day, there it was. 4900 Little Road. For sale. It felt surreal. As if something I had quietly carried for years had finally turned around and met me halfway. I moved quickly. Not without obstacles. Not without tension. Not all dreams arrive gently or without conflict. But in the end, it worked. And now it is ours.

The farmhouse, built in 1887, needs to be taken down to its bones. Fully gutted. Carefully reimagined. I can see it clearly, one small wing added for the boys, one small wing on the opposite side for me. A wraparound porch encircling the home so we can sit outside even when the Texas weather demands shade and shelter. I am drawn deeply to Australian farmhouses, their simplicity, their warmth, but I want to honor the original Texas character too. Something rooted. Something honest.

The live oaks were overgrown when we took ownership. Trimming them was necessary to preserve their longevity. There was a modular home on the property that needed to be sold and removed, opening up nearly an entire acre for what will one day become gardens. Flower gardens. Vegetable gardens. Chickens wandering through soft dirt. Maybe, one day, a small pool to cool off during long, heavy summers.

A metal barn stands beside the old rock house. I plan to transform that barn into my workspace. Finish the interior myself, flooring, insulation, windows, creating a place where I can write, paint, plan, build, and work without apology.

And the rock house will become our schoolhouse. A small, steady place for the boys to learn. Light filtering in. Projects throughout. A large chalkboard on the wall. A table worn smooth by small hands.

I cannot wait to get my hands in the dirt.

I cannot wait to look out from the kitchen window and see the boys running beneath those oaks.

I cannot wait to watch this property come fully to life.

What once felt like a dream at the end of a road is now the ground beneath our feet.

And slowly, deliberately, we are turning it into our forever home.