A home for generations

Our house is old. No-right-angles old. Walk-downhill-from-the-living-room-to-the-dining-room old. It was also cheaply constructed, as part of a set of four houses that were either identical or close to it. In 1937, the house was covered with ivy, had a billboard-sized sign advertising eggs for sale, and was reported to be in poor condition, expected to last only another five years, according to county records.

We've delighted in the history of our house. It's now an incredibly urban area, part of the densest neighborhood in the state. In 1900, when much of this area was just starting to be developed, critics wondered why anyone would want to live so far from town. (It's a 20-30 minute walk from here to the waterfront; must have taken longer without good roads.)

I'd seen conflicting reports of the age of our house, but believed that it was built in 1900. After talking to my neighbor (owner of the only other remaining house of the original four), it seems pretty clear that the house was actually built much earlier. Old maps show our houses before the street names were revised in 1895; he found square-headed nails in the siding of his house; and some documents say 1887 (for his house) and 1888 (for ours).

How many other people have collapsed gratefully on the living
room floor, as she did in 2003, after a day wrestling blackberries,
bindweed, and ivy at the back of our property?

I like knowing that our house was here long before us, and hoping that it will remain long after we're gone. (It's in much better shape than it was in 1937!) I feel Sandy in every room of this house, strongly enough to crowd out other energies. But when I first moved in, I sensed history. I knew the walls and floors had absorbed others' happiness and fears, pain and triumphs. Living alone, I wasn't sure I was up to hearing from any of those people, so I walked through the house my first evening here, letting any who were here know that they were welcome to stay, but asking that they not make their presence known just yet. Now I wonder sometimes if Sandy sees anyone else wandering through our house.

I know a little bit about the people who lived here just before I moved in. And from time to time, someone will walk by outside and say that this house used to belong to an aunt or a friend. But I know very little about the other lives that have unfolded within these walls. Sandy lived here for 13 and a half years, more than 10% of the time the house has existed, and more than a quarter of her life. How many other people have called this address home? And how much of themselves have they left here? Sandy was passionate about history, and I like knowing that she (and I) are part of the story that this house has to tell.