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Maybe it was the story of the Three Little Pigs
and that last house they built---the one the big
bad wolf couldn't blow down that fostered my
addiction. I believe their house was actually made
of bricks, but in my young mind I remember
thinking stone would have been even better. And I
still feel that way. Not even the heftiest of
wolves could blow a good old stone house in. For
most of my life I have lusted after stone houses
and now at last I have one…or it has me. That is
the thing about addictions---freedom is not a word
that comes easily to mind when you are the victim
of one. For me the problem becomes two-fold,
because along with my love of stone houses, I am
also afflicted with a life-long passion for old
houses. I love them and I cannot resist
them---especially really worthy old homes that
have long been neglected. They cry out my name and
I am helpless (some would say hopeless). But I
make few excuses for I believe it to be a mutated
gene of some sort---something I obviously have
inherited and so I do the best I can.
Through the years, my enduring mate (himself
not suffering much of my affliction, but daring
enough to humor his wife) and I have restored five
badly neglected, but truly worthy old homes.
However, not until two years ago did we become the
owners (slaves??) of an old stone house. And a
fine house it is!! I believe many a bat, coon,
coyote, possum and other assorted wild life would
attest to this. Lots of barn swallows too. Though
it was built in the mid-1800's, only the valley's
wild creatures had inhabited it for the past 52
years. No windows or doors were left intact to bar
anything needing shelter. Still, the brave little
house with its two and a half foot walls and
ancient maple trees standing guard, stood firm and
stout offering what ever comfort it could.
It took me nearly a year to convince my husband
that it would be a fine project and during that
time I had made peace with the house and its
wildlife, but alas, most of our friends who came
to see it that first year, would suddenly appear
pale, eyes frantically darting here and there,
mouths hanging open and would often be overcome by
a scary sort of hyperventilating as they stumbled
through the forsaken rooms. "Oh my word!
(gasp) oh good grief! (gasp) I can't believe
it!," they would cry. Sometimes I truly
fretted for their mental health. And I knew for
certain they had made a judgement about ours. We
worried that our family might begin to inquire
about the process of committing deranged loved
ones to an institution. And seen through their
eyes, I could almost understand. The house was a
bit of a challenge, filled as it was with old
packing crates, parts of barrels, cracked fruit
jars some with ancient bits of food still clinging
and rusted tin cans…along with at least a ton of
various types of manure. And there was the gaping
hole in the kitchen which looked down to a massive
cistern---a clever contrivance which would have
offered the house Frau running water practically
right there at her finger tips with but the push
or two of a pump handle, but definitely a little
daunting for our visitors.
Despite years of neglect, the four walls stood
straight and proud. We learned that the house had
been built by German Stonemasons who had come to
the new land hoping for a better life, and
bringing with them some finely honed skills.
Modern-day engineers who have studied their work
are keenly impressed. In our house there are no
sagging floors or rotting timbers and only a few
cracks in the mortar. The size of the huge lintels
over the doors and windows is to me, at least,
purely astounding. And so we began the challenging
task of persuading the courageous wildlife refuge
to become once again a happy home for a family of
two-footed creatures.
What our skeptical friends could not know is
the pure satisfaction of rescuing these neglected
old gems. They probably would never quite grasp
the sense of accomplishment one feels as dirty,
crumbling walls suddenly take on new life with but
the additions of some good old joint compound
rubbed into the wounds and a coat or two of fresh
paint. Old floors, hopelessly neglected and
scuffed take on a proud shine with a little
sanding and a few layers of polyurethane. Lawns
once littered and weedy grow lush and green with a
few days of attention and small packets of seed
quickly become glorious seas of color. Suddenly
the old house nearly sings.
It is true; restoring old houses requires
endless hours of work, but offers so very many
satisfactions. I love to walk down a stairway,
letting my hand glide along the banister, and
wondering just how many other hands through the
centuries have touched this very same wood. How
many feet have tread the steps? What styles of
shoes were on those feet as each step brushed the
wood helping to wear the paths so smooth? Often I
think I hear the old timbers whisper their thanks
and sometimes I stand quietly just listening as I
admire the tenacity and the antiquity of these
shelters. These are the times when I'm almost
certain I hear the faint laughter of children in
the kitchen and the quiet murmuring of lovers in
the bedrooms from so long ago. Sometimes I talk to
my houses offering encouragement and promises of
more nurturing to come. Of course this may be why
my family and friends worry some about my mental
state, but no matter. Restoring old houses has
been one of the greatest adventures of my life and
one that will undoubtedly continue for several
years---possibly decades---addictions are
sometimes like that.
TO BE CONTINUED
Next --- Let the Stone House Renovation Begin
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