My Hunt for the Woody Johnson House
So, the other week, I kept hearing whispers around the neighbourhood, folks talking about the ‘Woody Johnson house’. You know how it is, someone mentions something a bit unusual, and your ears perk up. I started picturing all sorts of things. Maybe it was designed by someone famous? Or perhaps some local big shot lived there way back when? My mind kinda ran wild with possibilities.
I couldn’t shake the curiosity. It just sort of stuck in my head. So, one sunny afternoon, I figured, why not? I laced up my walking shoes and decided to track this place down. I had a vague idea of the area they were talking about, just a couple of streets over.
The Search Begins
I started walking, keeping my eyes peeled. I looked for any house that stood out, maybe older architecture, maybe a plaque, anything really. Asked a fellow walking his dog if he knew the ‘Woody Johnson house’. He just scratched his head, mumbled something about maybe further down, wasn’t sure. Okay, not much help there.
I continued down the street, feeling a bit like a detective on a very low-stakes case. Nice houses, sure, but nothing screamed ‘special landmark’. I passed a few potentials, lingered a bit, but none felt quite right. Was I even on the right track? Doubt started creeping in.
Getting Closer?
Finally, near the end of the lane, I saw a guy out front, messing with his rose bushes. The house itself was pleasant, well-kept, but pretty standard for the area. Nothing grand. I almost walked past, but then thought, what the heck, last chance. Might as well ask.
So, I ambled over. “Excuse me,” I started, feeling a bit awkward, “Might sound like a strange question, but I heard some talk… is this the ‘Woody Johnson house’ people mention?”
The Big Reveal
The guy looked up from his roses, gave me a friendly smile, wiped his brow. “Well,” he said, chuckling a bit, “Depends what you mean. My name’s Woody Johnson. So, yeah, I guess this is the Woody Johnson house.”
And that was it. No famous architect. No hidden history. Just Mr. Woody Johnson’s actual home. We ended up chatting for a few minutes about his roses and the weather. Nice fellow.
Walking back home, I had to laugh at myself. Built it up in my head into this big mystery. Turns out, it was just a name. It was a good reminder, though. Sometimes the simple answer is the right one. Still, it was a nice walk, and I met a neighbour I hadn’t spoken to before. So, not a total bust, I guess.
