Today I’m taking advantage of the BlogHer writing prompt that asks, “When did you first realize that your home was not like other people’s homes?”
That was pretty obvious from the day we began to clean out the gaunt old farmhouse that had stood empty for four years.
One of my aunts had lived here previously, and she was quite the collector of magazines. We spent an afternoon just carrying out and burning all the ones she left behind. There was a lot of mouse poop to sweep up, too.
This old house that we call home definitely has a different kind of floor plan.
When the house was built, there was an open breezeway or “dog trot” between the front rooms. A second aunt of mine remembers crossing from one half of the house to the other in winter and wading through snow in the breezeway.
We replaced the old screened-in back porch with an indoor bathroom and laundry room. It must be hard for modern Americans to imagine that a house that’s stood for 150 years didn’t have modern plumbing until the late 1980s.
When the front door swells from the humidity and won’t close for the summer months, I know our home is different.
When I note the blue paint on the windowsill revealed beneath a peeling topcoat of white, I know our home is different. For some reason, people no longer rely on “haint” blue to keep the boogers scared away.
When my hubby and I host a family reunion here in October and nearly all the guests—from toddlers to ninety-year olds—remember either living here or visiting here as children, I know our home is different.
When I walk on warped wooden floors, or note door facings that don’t stand square, I know our home is different.
Our home has many imperfections, or, as some say, has lots of “character.”
I wouldn’t have it any other way.