Many towns and cities have Snob Hills. When we moved to our own private Snob Hill 17 1/2 years ago, we were the youngest family on this twelve-household incorporated subdivision. We had one five-year-old son and one on the way in a few months. We were living in a newly built suburban ranch-style house that my father in law called a glorified double-wide. We had been looking to move into an older, more traditional home for a few years. We wanted a house to go along with our antiques. We found several homes, but they either needed too much remodeling to live in during renovation or they had already remodeled and were beyond our means. We were mildly complaining about our situation one Sunday after Mass when an elderly parishioner urged us keep driving around town and sooner or later something would turn up. We took her advice and drove home on a street unfamiliar to us.

And there it was: an Open House Today sign planted haphazardly on a brushy hill. The house was obscured by a tall wooden fence. A peek through the gate and we resolved to return at the advertised time. Call it kismet or call it serendipity, but the only thing keeping the divorcing owners (both anesthesiologists) legally together was this house. Due to this "divorce situation," as the agent put it, the owners had just reduced the asking price by 30 grand -- just barely within our range.

We came. We stayed all day. We made an offer. We made a door-to-door move about a month later. Our life on Snob Hill had begun.