Three bedrooms! One bath! Nineteen forty-six, baby, right there in Old West Longmont, rising up out of the dust of the war years, a little stucco sentinel of survival and grit, a house built not just to stand but to last. Nothing fancy, no baroque curlicues of design-no, no-this is strength, plain and unadorned, the kind of strength you can lean your whole back against. That stucco skin, that sloping roofline-straight out of the farm fields, echoing barns and silos and wheat-stalk silhouettes.Step inside-ah!-the 1940s sensibility practically hums through the floorboards. Redwood, pine, the old-growth kind, hard as history, polished by decades of footfalls. Trim that still gleams with a certain golden warmth, no polyurethane veneer, no hollow-core fakery-real wood, real work. The rooms are laid out in that no-nonsense, don't-waste-a-foot manner, functional, tight, as if the architect had been schooled in thrift and clarity, which of course he had-wartime rationing stamped right into the blueprints.And then the attic! Oh, the attic-insulated, quiet, a retreat tucked away under the eaves. A hideout! A den! A secret room for sleep or study or something entirely your own. And below-listen-an unfinished walk-out basement, pipes already snaking, primed for two more bathrooms. Just waiting. Waiting for someone with a hammer, a vision, a little sweat equity. Of course, of course, there's the little technicality: two of the bedrooms are "non-conforming." No closets. A bureaucratic hiccup. The public record hasn't caught up, but what does paper know about possibility? Out back, the gardens stretch, irrigated, designed with a certain StoneLeaf elegance, ordered beds, intentional growth, all of it giving the place a finishing grace, a little yes, this is mine flourish.