Old houses

Every day, I walk by dozens of beautiful houses.

I am an admirer of grand old houses. I live downtown, just blocks away from some of the oldest neighborhoods in the city, where lumber barons and early merchants built their houses when the city was young. I admire the tall and pointed windows, the large trees in front, the ornate brickwork, the pointy roofs and occasional turrets. (I admire the turrets so much that I wrote a book called “The Turnip House” about a house with a turret that looks like an upside-down turnip.)

I walk down the sidewalks, admiring these lovely houses, often at night, and sometimes I even peep through the windows. It’s hard not to when the windows are large and the lights are on. (My friend Verne calls me a Peeping Tom, and he may be just a little bit right.)

But I love the woodwork and the 8-foot Christmas trees put up for the holidays. I admire the antique furniture and the lights shining through the stained glass. Some of the houses still have slate roofs. Some have wooden shingles. All of them have a character and charm and lasting beauty that makes me enormously grateful their owners have preserved them and that they are standing so proudly on the street for everyone to enjoy.

And right after I have enjoyed looking at a particularly beautiful house, I’m glad I don’t own it.

I’ve never owned a large house, but I once owned a rather small old farmhouse. I sanded every floor in that house and covered the floors with polyurethane. I sanded the cedar siding down to bare wood and painted it twice. I tiled the backsplash and replaced the furnace and insulated every wall inside. I no longer remember what all I did to that old farmhouse, and I honestly don’t remember hating the work at the time.

But because the house was nearly 100 years old, something would go wrong. The front porch foundation disintegrated. The septic tank was prone to clogging, and when it was dug out, I discovered I had not one septic tank but three – one after the other – heading off into the thick woods that were part of the property.

And yes, there are parts of it I miss. The quiet of that wooded spot. The creak of the old boards beneath my feet. The endless collection of wildlife parading past my windows. The brilliant maple leaves I looked into as I took a bath. I have many wonderful memories of living in that farmhouse. But when I am honest, I am glad they are a memory.

Because owning an old house is constant and unending work.

This is why I am so glad there are people (people other than me) who are happy to do it. There was a time when many of the grand old houses I walk by every day were in ruins. It took a tremendous amount of work and money – far, far more than my little farmhouse – to get those houses to look the way they do today, and I hope their owners get many years of enjoyment and pass them on to their families to do the same.

But I know what an old house needs. And right now, it feels good to know that this condo is enough. Our little apartment in Mexico is enough. I am happy with a life that is comfortable and easy, even if it is not grand. I can visit beautiful houses every day just by walking down the sidewalk – or by writing a story.

Till next time,

Carrie