This old house was white when I met it, trimmed in a deep grey — fitting for its wizened years. No one could tell me its age for sure (and it’s impolite to ask one’s age, you know), but it’s  watched this corner lot for nearly a century now. 

This old house echoed and steamed the summer I moved in, my first night sleeping on the floor and hearing fireworks celebrating independence outside. Its innards were deemed too old to be safe, so wires and outlets were replaced at great cost. The bird’s nests in the garage came free.

This old house had a long-haired white cat as a resident before me; the claw marks on the basement trim and fur embedded in the bedroom carpet suggested that, as well as a terrible smell that emanated from the basement stairs whenever the mercury climbed. Carpet and three iterations of linoleum paid homage to the olfactory memory, now removed in favor of wood, sealed with white paint.

This old house was gentle, allowing me to practice my hand at -iness. I tightened hinges, replaced door knobs, installed shelving, replaced light fixtures, cut and patched holes in the wall, and ran a saws-all in the basement. I built a garden and a flower bed, argued with lilac bushes and lilies, and shook my fist at rabbits and deer snacking on my roses. I cleaned ductwork and scrubbed gutters, wrangled a treadmill to the basement, and hung guitars in the corner (plaster and lath are pretty rough on drill bits, you know). I harvested sap from the maples and cooked their sweet juice on the deck, using the snowbank as my cooler.

This old house stood steady as I scrubbed and sanded it, tossing paint like a finger-painter, finally reaching a final palette 15 months after I started (but it sure looks dapper in Gentleman’s Gray 🤩). Maybe it giggled at me as I got arguably more paint on myself than on the walls.

This old house protected my things from the snow, the ice, the rain, and the cold. It suffered casualty in the hailstorm of 2022, earning a new roof, gutters, and an upgrade in attic insulation. It watched in 2023 as I moved snow to and fro, back and forth, trying to find a snowbank low enough to throw new snowfall off the driveway. Maybe it chuckled as my mailbox got swallowed up by the snowbank, even as I grumbled that I had to excavate it every time the city grader rolled by.

This old house watched as I garnered wisdom and favor in a community I love, in a profession that gives me purpose. It held space for me as I questioned how I would live within that profession even as I grew weary of its changes and demands. It quietly listened as I sighed, cried, and wondered what was next. Then, it held my things while I ran away for 3, then 6, then 10 months, chasing a dream that ultimately called me away from this dear old place.

Always steady, always here — This old house became a home.

I’m so grateful to have met this old house, to have lived this four-year chapter, to have had this homeownership opportunity. I pray a blessing upon whomever next chooses to let this old house become their home.