I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more,
Sonnet XLIII - Edna St. Vincent Millay
It's winter in Texas. That means so, so many things. It means snow. It means 80 degree days. It means those two anomalies can occur in the same week - in back to back days, even. Hello, y'all. I started a blog sans song lyrics, for the first time in almost a decade. I started a blog entry with a poem by my all time favorite poet, Edna St. Vincent Millay. This is NOT my favorite Edna poem, but it's a goodie. Why, you ask? We need to talk about something. We need to talk about a current obsession of almost everyone. Let's chat about houses. So, you wanna live in an old house? Oh, hun, have you come to the right person. Come on in. I'll get you some tea.
I have ALWAYS loved old houses. I love all old things: people, dogs, cats, cars, horses, houses. The order of importance tends to vary based on the day. Why? Easy. Everything I associate with happiness started with an old house. Here are some examples...my Granny's bungalow in Wilmer, TX with the New Orleans inspired wrought iron columns (complete with my Gramp's barbershop in the front room), my maternal grandmother's in-town cottage in Seagoville, my childhood rural home that happened to be an old East Dallas church that my father had moved to the country. If it ain't old, I don't want it. Fast forward a considerable amount of time. It took me a good bit, but I finally live in an old house - a 1910 bungalow, to be exact. Funny how none of my "pieces" ever fit into the succession of new homes I've lived in over the years. Like square pegs in round holes, nothing ever looked right until we moved into this house. Winchester sofa? Looks great here. Art Deco mirrors? Fit right in. Turn of the century portraits of people I don't know? Made for this place. Turns out, though, I'm not alone.
There's a home show that EVERYONE is addicted to - Texas based. My intent is to name no names because that's not what this is about. If anything, this unnamed show makes me feel so understood. Why, I'm not alone. Turns out, half the country wants an old house. Or do they? See, I feel like I'm a bit of an expert on this. So, before you strike out to conquer your own ramshackle antebellum mansion or dilapidated Victorian lady, listen to me. Linda, honey, listen. This life, it's not for the faint of heart. See, most of us don't have hundreds of thousands of dollars to commit to this lifestyle. Read on, reader. That unnamed home show, why, they showcase people whose "all in" budgets are almost a HALF A MILLION DOLLARS. Good for them! High fives all around. My life ain't been no crystal stair (two poet references in one blog! We are so sophisticated! Thank you, Langston Hughes). I dare say there are more people reading this blog who fall on my side of the fence. Welcome to the poor side of town.
I said my house was built in 1910. I can say this with certainty because we are only the 3rd party to own this home. That made my heart beat when we happened upon this place. See, the original owners managed to keep this little bungalow (the first bungalow built in Forney, TX) in the family from 1910 until 1990. That is an unheard of feat. I have a poem written by the granddaughter of the original owner hanging on my dining room wall. It mentions all who were born between these walls and all who died - we'll get to that in a sec. Then a local old home enthusiast purchased the home in 1990 and did some much needed restorations. Then it became a rental home. Then, we accidentally found it, in between renters. I saw the original 1910 cast iron farmhouse sink through the kitchen window and was obsessed. So, why do I feel the need to go on and on about hazards and such? Cause, 1910.
If you think you want to live in a near turn of the century home, here's what you DON'T know. Thank me later.
- I said, brrrrrr, it's cold in here. If you're buying a home that's pretty much in it's original condition, there is little to no insulation. Yep. Boil in the summer. Freeze in the winter. Watch a few episodes of Little House on the Prairie and get back to me. We have a high quality HVAC. Go us. Still, there are only two temperatures in this house: Icelandic & Equatorial. There is no in between. That's fine for us old folk. but I can't imagine raising babies here. Our drafts have drafts. I finally understand the term "bone-chilling".
- I'm not drunk, its just this old house. Expect to level. And level a little more. And level later on. Did I mention you'll need to level? See, old homes in the South are exclusively pier & beam, meaning your house is sitting on Bois d' Arc stumps (because they just don't rot). They do, however, slowly sink into the abyss that is black gumbo soil.
- I hate you, but I can't slam the door in your face because IT WON'T SHUT. We live and die by the rain. After a good old southern rain. all the doors that wouldn't shut suddenly will shut. And the ones that did shut will not. This includes exterior doors. Hamburglars, don't read this.
- That's not a snake - it's an extension cord. Get this! "Lectricity" was an afterthought when these homes were built! Sure, it was added as it came into town, but sparingly. Thus, my bathroom has one outlet, UNDER THE SINK. My kitchen (I use that term lightly because there are no cabinets) has 2 outlets.
- The Purge is more than a scary movie. In 1910 there were no closets. ZERO CLOSETS. See, folks in 1910 had 2 outfits, max. Britches to work in and church britches - THAT'S ALL, FOLKS. So, in order to survive here, I had to do some culling. MASSIVE CULLING.
- Halt, who goes there? Remember when I told you about the "people who died here" poem? I have a swinging door in my kitchen. It's a 9 ft tall door with hinges that are bigger than my hands. And it has a ginormous rubber doorstop that keeps it open. And it randomly slams back and forth. ALL THE TIME. My husband recently came home with the "as seen on TV" motion activated nightlight for our bathroom. Awesome! Except on night #3. I'm a light sensitive sleeper. I don't like any lights at night: clocks, carbon monoxide detector, smoke alarm, cell phones, televisions, clocks, etc. I sat up in bed on motion activated bathroom night light #3. It was going off every 15 minutes. No one was in the bathroom. No one. Cue the music from the Psycho shower scene. I left it in there. It's like a disco strobe light. Every night. Caspar was a friendly ghost, correct?
Moral of the story - maybe you're old house obsessed like me. Maybe you have half a mil to spend on an old house reno. If so, AWESOMESAUCE. But, what if you don't? Do you give up? Wait. Hold up. How serious are you? See, I just can't live where my hands were the first hands. Make sense? Everyday I wake up and walk into my cabinetless kitchen. I look at my original (non-insulated) wood floors and I peer through the (non-insulated) wavy window glass and look at the gorgeous mahogany window moldings and a calmness settles over me. I think of all the hands that touched each door. All the feet that walked on these floors and the lips their lips have kissed and where and why. I read that first granddaughter's poem every damn day. I think about the good times. I think about the bad times. I envision the bread making & the fat rendering & the fruit preserves they made. I can almost see those 1910 children picking the mulberries off of the tree in the back yard. They were so proud of this house. How did they fare during the Great Depression? They brought children into the world here and they said fond farewells to their loved ones in this very space. So, I culled my clothes. I wrap up in blankets in the winter. I open those wavy glass windows in the summer. I dream of the day I have a half mil to reno. That day may come. That day may never come. It really does not matter. I'm an old soul. I can't be happy anywhere else. After all, I cannot say what loves have come and gone. I know, however, that summer sang in this house. I will make sure it sings here evermore. Presenting the Jones Family - circa 1930ish. Thank you. Thank you so very much.
