Old house obsession

My obsession with old houses began long ago.

Having been born into a family of old house dwellers,

it was bound to happen. My earliest memories are of places I have lived.

They are snippets of time and space. I remember the gray paint

of the wood floor in my upstairs bedroom. I remember the three-paneled

front door with a window in the upper half. I remember hardwood floors

and ornate window and door casings. All the architectural details

that add pizzaz are embedded in my memory.

My heart longs for a home with a storied past. It does not have to be grand,

like many of the ones shown here. But it does have to have soul.

I need to feel its friendly presence upon entering through the front door.

I need to hear it call my name as I walk the halls and turn the corners.

There must be details that suggest it was built as a labor of love.

And it must have porches that span the front and sides to allow

for afternoons of leisure and nights where candlelight and whispers

beckon visitors up the wide steps.

And there must be lots of windows with gorgeous trim, both inside and out.

The ceilings must be high and the spaces bright.

And it must have a presence that suggests this place has seen and heard it all,

that it holds secrets deep in its bosom which will be slowly revealed

to those who take the time to listen.

Lately I can't seem to get this longing out of my mind. I love my house,

but there is one out there, over the hills and around the bend that calls to me.

It has had a hold on me for several months now.

In going through old family photographs over the weekend, I came across

a photo of the house that my great-great grandfather built

after emmigrating from Germany

in the late 1880's. Do you want to know a funny thing?

It looks remarkably like the one in my area I am obsessed with.

The porch railings and columns are the same.

The bay window in the dining room is the same.

The gables at the front and sides are the same.

Pretty strange, huh?

So this old house fever is in my blood. And sadly, there is no cure.

Perhaps I can talk my husband into selling our house and moving.

That would do the trick.

Until next time...

Anne

All images courtesy of Flickr.