This Old Home

This is a photo of my house which was taken in 1916. The people standing in front of it were the original owners who built it in 1893. The wraparound veranda is gone except for one small portion over the entry steps-the numbers above it are still here and made of wood. Along with everything else about this place, I love them.

I acquired the picture one day when a man who was about my age now, knocked on the door and told me that his father, who’d lived here as a boy, was near death and felt the photo should stay with the house. What a generous act on the part of a stranger. It’s been hanging in the living room ever since that day. When Michael and I started looking for a place to buy in 1978, the market was tight and interest rates were high. What became our house had been used as three apartments since the 1930’s. When the depression hit hard, no one could afford to take care of such a large place. The current owner was involved in settling an estate with the heirs of his business partner who’d recently died. He needed to sell three of their jointly owned houses to pay off the heirs’ shares. When Michael and I went to see the house, the renters of the first floor weren’t home. We climbed to the second floor and walked through the two units upstairs. I still can’t pinpoint the reason I knew we had to have it. There was nothing particularly attractive about the rooms or the shared bath-rather it looked like a lot of work with faded wallpaper and dingy floors. But I wanted it desperately and Michael, always indulgent,  went along with the utterly irrational idea of making a bid without ever having seen the first floor. Inspections? Bah!

The man who owned the place was a dapper, diminutive European man who wore seersucker suits with a handkerchief in the front pocket and beautiful two-toned shoes. He was reluctant to let the house go as he’d hoped to demolish it one day and build an apartment building on its large double lot. Though not a coffee drinker, I must’ve met him to have a cup every day for a month, to listen to his life stories and frustrations, using all my persuasive powers to melt his opposition and sell it to us. And eventually he did, on a balloon contract at an exorbitant interest rate. He was quite annoyed when I filed the contract with the County Clerk-he scolded me for not accepting his handshake as his bond. And suddenly we were homeowners. When the tenants’ lease on the first floor expired, we finally got to see the first floor which was our apartment for the first three years we lived here.

We scraped wallpaper, painted, stripped, sanded and varnished floors. We were thrilled. The walls seemed to exude warmth and good feelings. We spent long hours talking about what might’ve happened within these rooms, trying to understand what made the atmosphere so homey. 

Three years after moving in, we got pregnant and took over one of the upstairs apartments to make room for the baby. We rented the remaining unit to friends – when baby number two came along, we took over the entire place.

We spent a lot of time learning the history of the house. I have the original title which dates the land back into the 1700’s. The title includes the original owners’ wills which surprisingly,  show that their personal possessions were auctioned off to their children. We met the man who added indoor plumbing and two bathrooms in 1918. He said they cost a full year’s wages.

We knew his children, two of whom were local lawyers and one who was an Olympian. When their family sold the house, the local candy shop owner was the next purchaser. We found the names of renters, too. All neatly compiled in directories in our local library. Microfiche revealed  newspaper stories about who fell down the cellar stairs and how all the residents died. We found out that the original name of our street was Market-the residents petitioned the city council to change it to Broadway because they didn’t like the implications that “market” brought to mind. One day, a man who came to our garage sale told me he’d attended a beautiful wedding in our parlor.

And so our relationship with our home became more fulsome and complex. We were sharing space with everyone who came before us and began to compound that history with our own contributions. Our children grew up here and after leaving, came back to the place where so many of their life events happened. Learning to walk, playing in the yard, nuzzling pets and sleepovers were regular events. So were fighting and laughing and crying. The ball banged off the basketball hoop in the driveway. A hammock was strung between the apple and pear trees. Michael built a tall multi-level climbing structure in the backyard which we turned into a big planter until our grandkids showed up to climb it as our own kids had done years before. 

Listening to music and watching movies and taking furtive steps into the adult world everyone is so anxious to join happened under this roof. Our kids’ friends called our home a refuge space where comfort, treats, a sympathetic ear and big hugs could be found. A house of acceptance and no judgment. The people who came wore many colors and no one thought about it. Michael, whose childhood home was a cold and empty place, reveled in the warmth which I know has seeped into the walls and floors. We enriched the surrounding ground with trees, shrubs, flowers, vegetables and herbs. An ecosystem happened outside that meshed with the inside. A home with many flaws, not for everyone, but perfect for us. Every time I drive down my street and see it waiting for me, I’m always happy to go inside.

The stairs are harder for me now. The house is too big and too much to maintain on my own. Suddenly I have hired helpers. I’m toying with ideas about how to manage as I age along with this stoic refuge that’s weathered so many years. Such a sturdy, reliable place. I hope to stay here until the end of my life, in the space where the walls continue to send out the vibe that drew us here. Where in certain lights at different times of day, the ones that I love still appear in the shadows and years of memories play in images on these wondrous walls. 

Postscript: The soul of this house has grown since I first wrote this post. My mother lived in the parlor for period during her elder years. Then the room was transformed into a playroom for my grandsons, the first of whom I cared for during his first three years. When Michael got sick I was sadly unable to provide that care for my second grandson. After Michael’s five year cancer ordeal, he died in our home with me and our children by his side, a testament to the depth of the family we built together. In recent years, when my traveling biologist son was home, he worked from the comfort of that beautiful parlor.

This past Tuesday my son married his lovely bride at a ceremony in the parlor, officiated by my daughter. His best man was his childhood friend whom he’s known since they were toddlers in day care together. That guy spent countless hours growing up in this old house. There is something magical about being married in the house where you were born. I brought a photo of Michael into the room although that gesture was hardly necessary. His presence is still here as I assume mine will be when I’m gone. I’m so glad to have spent my life in this old home, built to last in 1893. Lucky us.