This Old House and Me

Even as a very young girl old houses fascinated me.  During the thirties there were many different styles in our area but two stories held a special attraction for me. They indicated stairways and visions of sliding down banisters at breakneck speed that seemed like a lot of fun to me. When we visited in old homes I itched to climb the stairs to see what was lurking above. Most children do but for me it was almost an addiction. I didn't think of ghosts, but once in a while it crossed my mind that there might be a crazy old relative hidden away in the attic.

Stairs were off limits in most homes. I could sit on the bottom steps and dream but had strict orders not to venture up the stairs and definitely not to plunder. Many scenarios filled my head while waiting on my perch reading or coloring in a book while waiting for the adults to finish their visit. When it was time to go there were a million questions I wanted to ask.  Mama patiently answered some of them but warned me not to make up tales. It was hard not to. The radio programs we listened to at night lingered in my mind long after they were turned off. Some nights while lying in bed thoughts of chains rattling or moans of some unfortunate soul filled my head. More than once I slept under the covers hoping they couldn't see me.

One of Mama's friends lived on the older side of town. Their house was on the corner of the block and had a long porch across the front. In the summer I would sit there and look at my book or whatever else we brought to keep me occupied. The house down the street at the other end of the block was my favorite. There were porches upstairs and downstairs at the front and side of the house. We never visited there but it didn't keep me from thinking about it. One day while the grownups were sitting on the porch I wandered along the sidewalk looking for someone to talk to. After reaching the end of the street I turned and slowly began my journey back. There was a lady sitting in the porch swing at the old house and she smiled and waved at me. That was all the encouragement I needed to stop and talk with her. She was saved by the sound of Mama calling my name.  It was time to go. When I turned to wave goodbye the lady was gone.

Gone With the Wind made its debut in 1939. I was ten years old and a little young to appreciate the movie but it didn't matter. It didn't play in our hometown for a while anyway.  I knew just how Bonnie Blue must have felt when she fell off her horse. My second passion was horses and it made me sad that Clark Gable wanted to kill that little pony. We didn't have horses then but there were plenty of them in the movies. My cousins and I always spent Saturday afternoons at the theater watching the same movie play over and over until it was almost dark. That was Mama's opportunity to have a little peace and quiet at home.  The following week my friends and I took turns playing Roy Rogers, Gene Autry and Hopalong Cassidy. Broomsticks and mops got a good workout and lead flew right and left. It was hard to believe that we could dodge all those bullets but I don't ever remember anyone falling down dead. Apparently we were all endowed with an invisible cloak of steel.

We went through the skating and bicycle years as most young people do. We didn't have a skating rink back then, or now for that matter. Friends would gather and skate on the sidewalks or on the main highway leading into town. There was a slight slope in the road down to the Mill past the superintendent’s house. It added speed to our descent and drove motorists crazy when they saw four or five of us coming toward them, holding hands, in pop the whip fashion.

Springs, the owner of the mill, provided homes for the employees on both sides of the mill. Most were average sized homes but the ones that faced the highway were those provided for supervisors. The size of the house related to the importance of the job and the superintendent occupied the most elaborate one of all. It was a beautiful old white two-story sitting on a large corner lot that ranked high in my memory bank of wishes.

In our late teens the town began to change and so did we.  We went to the theater regularly but our taste in movies was quite different. We were growing up. Instead of Gene Autry and other horse opera stars we watched Gene Kelley, Tom Drake, Robert Mitchum, and everyone's favorite, John Wayne. It didn't matter if he was fighting Indians or Japanese. He was our hero and always managed to have a handsome young man in his movies to take under his wing and protect.

During the war years we faced another challenge. Young men were being drafted or were enlisting. We faced shortages of supplies we had always taken for granted. Most families only owned one car. You couldn't do much riding with gas rationing in effect anyway. We walked. Summer or winter, it didn't really matter. It was fun. There were five of us who were really close friends and those years were some of the happiest of my life. We usually gathered at my home in the afternoons or on weekends. We sat around the house playing records in the living room or discussing boyfriends, clothes, movies, or anything else we could think of. We sat on the porch watching and waiting for our boyfriends to stop by. They always knew where to find us.  When we were tired of sitting we walked again. We had a special route we followed. It was always through the residential areas of Matson Street past the beautiful old homes lining both sides of the road. We crossed over to the other side of town and into the area of older homes there. I always made sure that we went by the old house on Church Street. The years were taking their toll but it was still my favorite. It triggered old memories of my childhood and the lady on the porch.

The years have flown by since those days. Now I am married and have children of my own. We still live in my hometown. The thought of leaving is completely alien to me. My family, friends, and all the things I hold dear are in this town. The ties are as strong as chains but to me they are like satin ribbons tied into a bow.

One day we heard the old house was for sale.  The owners had retired and were moving away. We were thrilled and called immediately to ask if we could see it. As soon as we walked through the doorway it felt like home. The stairs in the hallway, fireplaces in every room and old pine floors that had aged beautifully captured our hearts and our imagination. My husband loved to restore anything old whether it was furniture, floors, or whatever else caught his eye.  He would have enough work to last him a lifetime.

We bought the house and have worked on it ever since. It has been a labor of love for both of us. We were asked once if we thought it might be haunted. We said we didn't know. Once in a while we have heard the stairs creaking when the two of us are here alone. There have been other unexplained noises that my husband describes as the house "settling". It probably is.  As for me, I like to think it’s the past inhabitants returning to make sure we are taking proper care of it.

A friend stopped by one day and brought a photograph of a young lady. She found it while looking through her mother's trunk and thought we might like to have it. She said it was the daughter of the man who had built our house and she had lived here until her death.

“She looks awfully familiar,” I said. “She must be the lady I saw sitting on the porch a long time ago.”

“Oh, it couldn’t have been her,” she said.  “This lady died in 1933.”

  I was born in 1929 and would have been four years old at the time of her death.  The lady I saw was not old but young and beautiful. Just like the picture.

Maybe it was her, maybe not. You decide. I already have.


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making new ones.