Old house, why do you forsake me so? Like a bad Shakespearean tragedy. Stabbing me in the back. Haunting me with ghosts. Tormenting me.
“Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer …” Oh, who am I fooling? I’m an English major, studied Shakespeare at Cambridge University one summer in college and can’t even remember enough for a half-baked literary … um … well, whatever this is.
I’ll just leave it at, “Et tu, Brute?” which, if memory serves, is Latin for, “So, you’re also gonna’ kick me in the pants, ya’ weasel?!?”
That is my relationship with my old house. Oh, love and hate. It loves to torture me, and I hate how I’m always spending money, time and sanity putting it back together every couple of years. Because when it comes to old houses, there is no such thing as “done.”
There is only “underway” or “what’s next?”
And “what’s next?” is usually the kind of project that makes you wonder why you didn’t buy a nice concrete block home where the only thing you have to worry about each weekend is whether you watch college football or auto racing. Ah, imagine it!
But not in an old house. Even a “good” old one like mine, which has gone relatively issue-free for the part several years. Trickster that it is. Lulling me into a state of artificial bliss. Making me think that I have turned some corner, and will never again have to face roof leaks, termite insurrections or wood rot that gets so bad that the only thing holding up whole sides of the house are 94 coats of paint that have developed load-bearing properties.
You can never turn your back on an old house. Never give in to the complacency or false sense of satisfaction. That you have come to some truce and retired into a détente. (French word for “you stop messing with my crap and I’ll stop messing with yours.”)
Because then you notice a little paint peeling here. And some wood rot there. And over there, where the water splashes off the AC compressor … HOLY GARBANZO BEANS!!! The siding is coming loose and there’s water damage and it looks like a family of marmots could just about squeeze themselves in and open a falafel stand.
Dang, I better do something about that!
But what? That’s going to take a little work. And little projects on old houses are never “little.” They’re Pandora’s Box kind of stuff. You go into it with a plan, thinking it will be easy stuff. Then you pull a “little” thread here and next thing you know you’ve opened up what turns out to be a portal to a totally different dimension, and you’re fighting an interstellar battle with the fate of all mankind resting squarely on the outcome. (Not to mention you ruined some of the load-bearing paint, and the whole structure is now leaning left!)
Why didn’t I just put a blue tarp over it and call it good?!?
Old houses are no joke. They are like life and death struggles. Quests for the Holy Grail. Epic journeys that will change you. They will cause the weak to go insane, grow beards that they braid into underwear and become nomadic hermits swearing off domiciles (Latin for “place where you dump loads of money down the drain, and sometimes get critter infestations.”) They walk the streets babbling incoherent things like, “Never trust the walls. The walls open and the marmots move in!”
It has been too easy for too long. But my list has started to stack up. The paint beginning to peel. The siding issue by the AC unit. The rotted wood by the hot water shed and in the upstairs porch floorboards. The shed roof leak. And on and on. Little things … becoming bigger.
I grow jealous when I hear colleagues talk about moving from their old homes into new ones. Concrete block construction where structural integrity is not a percentage of how much it has rained recently. Where you don’t have to worry about whether hanging a painting may cause the entire structure to tilt.
“Got any spare bedrooms?” I joke … only half-jokingly. “Like three, and room for a cat, a dog, two chickens and a blind yard lizard who likes hamburger meat?” (People always politely excuse themselves and say they’re late for a meeting.)
But maybe that’s part of the joy of an old house. All the work that goes into it. It does reward with character and curb appeal. Tourists who bike down my street holler out, “Love your house!” as they pass by.
“Thanks,” I reply. “It could be yours if you have any pocket change.”
I stand back and try to see what they see. The bigger picture, rather than the sum of the little projects here or there that need tending, or that will pop up sooner or later with a cry for help. All the little problems and issues. Say … is one side of the house drooping like it’s melting in the heat?
But I love my old house. I guess that’s why we live here. The character and personality. The charm. The rocking chairs on the big front porch. The tin roof. The ornate details. The marmots living in the walls. It’s a lifestyle when you’re an Old Houser, but it’s worth it.
I guess they just have a certain je ne sais quoi. Which is French for “a kind of appeal that can’t be totally expressed … until it stabs you in the back.”