How I Fell in Love With Grey Gardens

So you can imagine how excited I was when house-hunting the following summer in the Hamptons and the real estate agent mentioned Grey Gardens. Of course, buying it was unthinkable. But I was dying to see the inside, fleas or no fleas. I should have realized there might be a problem when the agent refused to go inside with me.

The house lived up to its billing. It was the most disgusting mess I had ever seen. I tripped over a cat skull walking in, the stench was beyond anything I had ever smelled, the floors were in such terrible condition that my foot went through one of the boards, and when I plunked on one of the keys of the piano, the whole thing collapsed.

Little Edie was there to greet me, full of hope and expectations. She was horrified by all the other prospective buyers who wanted to tear down the house and build a new one. She had refused to sell to them. When she saw the look on my face, hers lit up. She began dancing and twirling around the living room, singing, "All it needs is a coat of paint." She didn't have to sell me. I was in love.

The real estate agent was astonished. It was the first time in her life she had tried to discourage anyone from buying a house. My friends were horrified. My husband, Ben Bradlee, a former executive editor of The Washington Post, is wildly allergic to cats and nearly collapsed after touring the house. He thought I was completely nuts.

We bought it. I was in heaven.