It was one of those booming laughs that surprises even yourself. The sheer volume of how loud it was. That it had come from so deep in my chest. I looked around to see if anyone had noticed.
The letter came from the city. It was very official looking. “Dear Property Owner,” it began. What got me was two lines in: “Out of more than 8,000 buildings in the city you are the owner of one of the 1,659 designated historic buildings.”
Ha!!!
That was it. That was the line. That it said – described my house! – as “historic.”
“Historic?!?” I thought. “Mine? Have you seen it? Have you lived in it? Have you understood the pain and heartbreak and trauma I have endured. For what? History!?! Again, good sirs and madams, I say, ‘HA!!!’”
I guess it was a nice thing to say. A compliment. Something to be proud of. I am the proud owner of something truly special – a legacy. An enduring relic of the past. Yay history!
It was a letter about protecting historic properties and a new review process the city is looking at. I’m all for that. It’s what makes St. Augustine special. But I just couldn’t get past the “historic” bit. It sounded so regal. So important. Like a house – and some people – who we weren’t.
Historic is some stately mansion with frescoes on the walls, ornate moldings and a butler who says things like, “Shall we feed the dog caviar again, or the foie gras you deemed not ‘foie-y’ enough?”
The story of my house? Sure, it was built around the early turn of the previous century. You know, the 1900s. Back when presidents like McKinley, Roosevelt and Taft ruled the roost.
But it’s just a little cottage with some gingerbread-y features that the termites are still trying to dismantle. It has enough classic charm that people stop on the street and say: “Boy, look at that. I bet that place has taken the sanity and the treasure of some poor, broken man.”
Spot on!
“Historic” houses by nature are wonderful. But they’re no cup of tea, either. They’re a lot of work to keep up and you have to be willing to compromise on certain conveniences and modern niceties like, say, your sanity and your treasure.
They take work and care and someone who can appreciate all the quirks and nuances. Because they come with many.
Like how you sometimes hear scary things in the walls. I don’t really believe in ghosts or paranormal things. But living in an old house, I can’t really rule them out either. And I can’t come up with any better or more logical explanation for what sounds like someone driving a Formula 1 car behind the drywall and plaster.
I mean, sure, it could just be a varmint. Old houses have varmints. But what could they possibly be doing that would cause such a commotion? A dance party? Sumo Wrestling? Running a sawmill?
And that’s not even the least of it. There are no straight lines or right angles anywhere in an old house. In fact, most of my abode defies all the laws of geometry. You’ve heard of anti-matter? My house has “anti-angles.” It’s like an M.C. Escher print. Or Salvador Dali. All melting and deforming, with strange, paranormal figures holding dance parties in the walls.
My house leaks cold air that I pay a lot of money for during the hot summer months, and in the winter, it has the audacity to invite the cold air back in when it’s free.
Maybe worst of all: Because it is a “historic” building, nothing built today fits neatly into any part of it. There is a word for this: Custom. And “custom,” I have come to realize, is Latin for: Costs more than a fighter jet.
A “historic” house is like a coddled movie star: It demands attention, love, adulation, praise and constant preening. Otherwise, it gets moody. Angry. It lashes out and starts to regress. It might require expensive plastic surgery or a visit to a rehab center.
But, and here’s the thing, you love them anyway. Warts and all. You love them for being them. Unique. Old. Charismatic. Authentic. They become family. You love them because they become part of you. Who you are. And because you’re one of only 1,659 people who own them in the city. I should feel very special about it, and I suppose I do.
Only, every time I think about it, I have to stifle a laugh. Because why do historic houses have to come with paranormal dance parties in the walls, and take such a toll on my sanity and treasure?