That Old House

We decided to buy our first house while I was recovering from the extraction of four wisdom teeth and flying high on Percoset. 

"This Percoset is something else," I declared to my sister on the phone that night. 

"Well, it oughta be, you could probably sell it for ten bucks a pill in the park across the road," she giggled. Said house was across the street from the Highland Park, which was not necessarily known for Percoset dealing. But, being a public park and all in a town where night tended to be dark, you never know.

The house was built in 1912 or so. A typical American four-square that had been subdivided into five apartments during the Great Depression. This house would have been better situated in a war zone than the beautiful historic district of our town. There were nails the size of railroad spikes in some upstairs walls. An extension cord ran from the enclosed upstairs porch through the wall to the one upstairs bathroom, providing electricity for hair dryers and such and shared by the two apartments on that floor. There were five stoves (not gourmet), five refrigerators, five kitchen sinks. No dishwashers. The basement apartment was below code because it was below minimum ceiling height. The attic looked as if it tried to be an apartment, but couldn't quite pull it off. This place was a disaster.

And I, swimming in the effect of a legally-induced drug euphoria, agreed, "YES! WE CAN TOTALLY FIX THIS PLACE!"

Curt was possibly never prouder. Until we bought the place and he bore the brunt of the labor of turning it into our home. I could clean and paint, mind you. But that was about the limit of my skills. Curt toted appliances to the dump, fixed the wood sash windows, arranged for electrical work, tore out extra walls, rebuilt stairs, sanded hardwood floors, built a new deck, demolished two bathrooms, bla yada yada bla bla. Curt turned 5 hideous apartments into a home meant for us. 

I can't begin to enumerate the tasks that turned this disaster of a building into the home that welcomed our new best friends and next door neighbors Jack and Lois and our two sons Camden and Benjy. I can tell you that our favorite part of this house was quite probably the front porch. From here we could look right into the park, which did not appear to be a drug zone or anything but a peaceful oasis from the city less than a mile away. We could wait out the thunderstorms here. We could chat it up with Phillip when he moseyed by on his way down the sidewalk. We could make supper plans with Lois as she hollered from her porch next door. We (read Curt) even installed a watering system here that automatically watered our Kroger-bought ferns every single day so we could keep up with the neighbors. Our ferns were beyond beautiful.

I'm almost puddly with the memories. I do miss our first home. 

This entire post was brought to you, not by Percoset, but by Ed and Tracy's house in Hartford. Our small group from church met here this morning to help them paint their new very old home. I confess to old house envy bordering on downright covet-ness. Their big, amazing old house with the shiny and gorgeous chandelier and humongous old iron tub made me think so very much of Walnut Avenue and the home we loved and loved and loved.