My friend Megan wrote a beautiful piece about old houses recently, an opinion I am absolutely terrible at expressing. I usually end up insulting someone, not my intention, rather than voicing my love and respect for the old bones of a beautiful home. Soul, old homes have soul, and character, and history, they command respect for what they are and what they have endured. I love that my family gives life to our little apartment, a wonderful old gal with plenty of spirit, and amazingly beautiful details not yet destroyed by progress.
Our neighborhood is slowly being robbed of much of its character, brand new three flats replacing the old gray stones that stood for years before them. I shudder to think that one day that will be the face of this great old neighborhood, so long known for the old stone buildings built after the Chicago fire.
But then, I am a lover of stories, and storytelling. And old homes have stories that new homes do not, not yet. As is the case with the things in our old home, most come with requisite baggage having been handed down from my family, or acquired on our travels, or received as true gifts from friends and family, all with their own story to tell. Stop by, I'll be happy to bore you to tears with their saga, that old wooden bottle from a Romanian hotel is dying for it's chance to speak.