I do adore history. And the history of things. I feel that structures hold the imprints of spirits and memories of those that came before. All you have to do is walk into a place to get the heebie jeebies and know something tragic happened there or to walk into a place and feel a wonderful sense of calm to know what I mean.
When we walked into the house we are buying Thursday I felt like I was in someone’s Grandma’s house. I could not explain this but I saw children running through and laughter and celebrations and quiet contemplations in the light filled home.
The internet has made it rather easy to find out history. A few clicks of Google and I had found the names of all the owners of the house and then the history of the family that was there for seventy five years.
Leslie was eighteen, and his lovely wife, Jane was twenty-two. They came from Kansas and the newly married couple built this house in 1925. Since the bedrooms and bathroom were not built on until 1952, their growing family lived in close quarters indeed. Their children, Elmer, Leslie, Weslie, Dorothy, Ruth, and Donelda (I just love old names.) grew up in this home and it was passed to Elmer then to Elmer’s daughter until it was sold in 2000. It was lost to the bank a few years after and in the past six years, three owners have fixed and flipped or rented the home. My beloved grandfather’s name and my son’s middle name is Elmer and I feel its kismet.
I found the grandson who still lives in Pueblo and I am extremely tempted to pen him a letter to see what memories he may still carry.
Soon we will add a lifetime of memories and children and grandchildren and celebrations of our own to that beautiful dwelling. I shall indeed treasure it.
The pink leather notebook, fresh and empty of ideas, lay open upon the wooden breakfast table near the wood stove. Ideas flourished and manifested across the pages. The intensely planted garden of organic produce, the small dairy, the ducks, the chickens, the sheep, the goats, the bees, the homesteading school, the farmgirl classes, the herbal classes, […]
via The New Notebook — Medicine Wolf
It is just an ordinary old building from the outside. It was a feed store and a liquor store among other things. Its basement is flooded and water rushes around the old, old boiler standing proudly, its ankles wading in the rainwater misplaced. The large main floor is open with high ceilings, windows, wood floors, and my eyes gaze around in wonder as if I were designing a loft for a popular television show. The upstairs is a rounded loft that would make a lovely bedroom. The back room is really the gem. A rustic blank slate of old brick and cement, a kitchen it must be. I dream as the owner shows me around. Lord, I could decorate anything. Unfortunately we have to rent a year before we can buy and she could not afford to allow us that being too far behind. The bank will likely have this unspoken masterpiece, unappreciated in its barrenness but too expensive in its needs. I wished her luck. I could have had supper clubs there and art openings and karaoke nights! But alas, it is not for us though if could buy we could get it for a song. I could even turn the outside strip into a garden oasis with chickens.
So, Doug and I decided to head out to the building that holds the company that he is interviewing with tomorrow. We are confident and hopeful. We backtracked from the building to various neighborhoods, many with pristine grass and home owner’s associations written all over them as well as mighty confident price tags. Because his work, should he get the job, is on the far north side of Colorado Springs we would be a mere ten minutes from the first bit of country. A life Doug would like to hold onto. Truth be told, so do I. We still want the large gardens and chickens. The views, the stars, the quiet, that life.
We drove past the trees that were scarred by the fire I wrote about a few years ago. The area is regrowing and beautiful. To live in the trees would be magical even though the fire risk is always a possibility. A few minutes further we get into the prairielands we know and adore.
Oh where will our new home be? And can it be somewhere we can stay? To put down roots and apple trees without fear of being forced to move? Can we find someone to help us get the house then buy it from them? Or a place that we can rent then purchase later? A place that we can call our own? Dreaming of home is a bittersweet ordeal when you know not where home is.
Home is by a hearth and fire, surrounded by our cats, and visited by our beloved ones. It is where we find each other at the end of the day and at early dawn. Where the rooster will crow and the pumpkins will grow. We are searching.