bricks met neatly, floors were firm, and doors sensibly shut; silence lay steadily against the wood and stone,
and whatever walked there, walked alone.
― Shirley Jackson
Poppy
A house has a past, but it can also have a soul―a personality that complements your own and seems to wrap you in its arms.
People obsess about family trees without giving a thought to their house's geneaology, particularly an early house like Poppy's that's endured for almost two centuries.
I think if people look carefully at older houses they'll see imprints of the past, much like scars on a body and each tells its own story.
Poppy was giving us a tour through her house and commenting on the various features of rooms she liked, but to tell the truth, I was tuning her out.
She saw the house the way a real estate agent might market it or from a layperson's view of a house beautiful. I got that―she had evident pride of ownership.
But I saw the house differently, not according to my likes, but according to the houses's needs.
For instance, the front door squeaked when opened―the house was crying.
The house was made for animal friends, but where were they?
I had the distinct impression she was struggling to accept the house on its terms but instead of appreciating its strengths she was thinking instantly of how she must change it.
I could see her practicing some esoteric philosophy like Feng Shui to rid the home of negative energies just to make it liveable for her.
I wondered why she even bought it, so I decided to ask her.
"it's a long story," she said somewhat defensively. "I was out for a drive and saw the for sale sign and phoned the agent and asked to see through it."
"So, it was a kind of impulse buy?" I probed.
"You might say that," she said wistfully, staring through the dining room window at the trees beyond. "The house and grounds had a feel to them that was familiar... other than that I can't really say why I put in an offer."
We continued the tour and I noted the small details of craftsmanship that went into the architecture.
The mouldings over each doorway were adorned with chevrons at the top giving the house a Romanesque feel.
Even the stairs were decorated under the treads along the stringer cover. The loving attention to detail was remarkable.
When the tour was completed I told Poppy I'd gladly undertake the job of researching the house's history but I'd need to return a few times to closely examine the house and grounds to get a real sense of the house's personality.
She agreed and we settled on Saturday mornings for the next few weeks.
What I didn't tell her was the fact I was being drawn back repeatedly to the basement and the stain on the concrete floor, but more than that, I sensed a sadness in her directly linked to the house and it was weighing heavily on her mood.
I wasn't worried about reading the house, but it was for her well being I was concerned.
