I love old houses, which is good, because we live in a house that is well over a hundred years old. Our house was built in the days of horse and buggies, outhouses, formal parlors, and wood-stoves for heat. Ours is an old farmhouse, complete with carriage barns, which, yes, did in fact hold carriages as well as the horses to draw them. A white stone smokehouse once adorned our yard, and a red pump house, complete with watering trough, still resides there. There is even an old cement chopping block in the far back room, (Sunday chicken dinners did not come from the grocery store.)
Yes, I love old houses and the stories as well as mysteries held within their walls. Our house, like many other Nineteenth century homes, has gone through considerable changes over the years. In-door plumbing brought the outhouses in. No more midnight trips across the snow covered yard to relieve one’s-self. And cast iron radiators replaced wood stoves, allowing one to heat the entire house at once.
The first floor of our home has been remodeled and redecorated several times over the years. Dry wall replaced old lath and plaster, floors were leveled, wall to wall carpeting and laminate flooring installed, the kitchen and bathroom modernized, and so on. The second floor however is a much different story.
The first floor of our home has been remodeled and redecorated several times over the years. Dry wall replaced old lath and plaster, floors were leveled, wall to wall carpeting and laminate flooring installed, the kitchen and bathroom modernized, and so on. The second floor however is a much different story.
What a mess! Once you climb the steep stairway, which my sister and I fell down many times in growing up—I forgot to mention I grew up in this old house—you enter history. There is no dry wall, lath and plaster still abide here, the doors have latches rather than doorknobs, and there are nooks and crannies and oddities that only live in a house of history. Unfortunately along with the charm, there is also considerable labor involved in doing simple jobs, such as painting a grandchild’s bedroom.
“We need to paint the girls bedrooms before they get back from Virginia,” I had said to my husband. “They need a little patching but that won’t take long.” I was wrong—So very wrong. One crack led to another, and that led to a bump and gouge and all sorts of annoying things. Plastering led to sanding, which led to dust—so much dust—and on to the tedious, and unfortunately not very neat task of trimming, (a job I detest) and finally rolling the paint onto the patched walls. (This job I loved) The finished product, if I may say so, looks wonderful.
“We need to paint the girls bedrooms before they get back from Virginia,” I had said to my husband. “They need a little patching but that won’t take long.” I was wrong—So very wrong. One crack led to another, and that led to a bump and gouge and all sorts of annoying things. Plastering led to sanding, which led to dust—so much dust—and on to the tedious, and unfortunately not very neat task of trimming, (a job I detest) and finally rolling the paint onto the patched walls. (This job I loved) The finished product, if I may say so, looks wonderful.
mystery water tank This project opened my eyes and my curiosity to several oddities in my home. Things that caused me to pause, scratch my head, and wonder. I began to wonder the history of the two long, narrow rooms located on either side of our son’s bedroom, (the granddaughters bedrooms) and why on earth they needed the large, sturdy locks on the inside of the doors. I pondered the relevance of unique finds, which were located in the large, open room that had once been my bedroom. Why had they taken down a wall that had once been there, as marks in the wide board flooring attested to? What had the little room that was no longer there since the wall came down been used for? Why is one part of the floor lower than the other? What was the large gravity flow water tank in the corner of my old room used for? Who were the people who not only built our old house way back before modern technology, but also lived here?
If my house could talk, what stories would it tell? What mysteries would unfold?
If my house could talk, what stories would it tell? What mysteries would unfold?
Ta-Da! I’ll be honest, the entire time that I was preparing our granddaughter’s room to paint I longed for good old, or should I say modern, drywall. How much easier my life would have been with smooth modern walls. And yet, it was only through the tedious, messy, and exhausting process of scraping and plastering that I was able to view history. From the layers of old wallpaper, to the interesting wooden stripping, and on to the heavy-duty locks, and missing walls, history was materializing before my dust filled eyes: questions and all.
Well, Taylor loved her grown-up teal bedroom, and now I get to do it all over again for Cammie’s room, which will be BRIGHT pink. I hope I can hold on to my newfound appreciation for the marvels of old houses, as well as lath and plaster. Hmmm, probably not: At least not until the room is finished.
And just think there’s so much more to do. Yay?
Well, Taylor loved her grown-up teal bedroom, and now I get to do it all over again for Cammie’s room, which will be BRIGHT pink. I hope I can hold on to my newfound appreciation for the marvels of old houses, as well as lath and plaster. Hmmm, probably not: At least not until the room is finished.
And just think there’s so much more to do. Yay?
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