I live in a house that is over 100 years old.
It was born in 1917, a wedding gift for the daughter
of lumber barons.
They had a house on the property too,
the Trueblood Family.
I can see the remains of the big house
from the windows of our children's rooms.
It is gone now, the big house, it fell into disrepair
and nature is slowly reclaiming it.
Old washing machine,
weathered barn doors, an old wagon.
Perfect for children to investigate.
I found an old packet of photos
of our house, and poured through photos
during the last ice storm.
There were so many pictures
of so many seasons, years, friends, owners.
Old photos with the crinkled edges,
they are so aged, black and white,
slightly out of focus.
Seeing the orchards surrounding the house
with fruits blooming.
(They are no longer there)
Christmas trees decorated with such finery,
small trees that are now giant redwoods, as big as the ones in California.
(I love the trees, I hug them, dwarfed by the magnitude of
old wood and branches. It would take 5 people holding hands
to give the trees a full hug)
I like the idea of houses being born.
I like to think that houses are keepers of the
stories, love, laughter, secrets, wishes, anger, disappointment,
a silent partner of those that live within her.
I like to think that this house is full of love again,
with our small family
protecting us with it's old structure.
I like to think that it laughs with us, and it knows how
loved it is.
I also like the idea that we are her stewards
And that it is our privilege to take care of her
while we live within her walls.
And that other's will come after us,
and it will keep taking care of her, maintaining
her beauty, her love, her solid self.
I hope they do.
She is too perfect to let nature take her back.