The Front Door
An Old House and a Middle-aged Woman
An old house is like a middle-aged woman. I know this because I live in a 114 year old Victorian farmhouse and I am fifty-two years old.
Because of our age, some things are no longer where they started out. Over time, things have become crooked and they sag. Surfaces are now uneven and lines of unknown origin show up at the most unexpected times and in the most unexpected places. We freeze in winter and over-heat in summer. Pipes get old and water pressure decreases. Joints stick and knobs don’t turn like they used to. We make strange sounds in the middle of the night.
The original paint is badly worn in spots and sadly, some parts have actually gone missing. Dentil/dental work is always coming into question and repair technicians of varying sorts are called in more often than in younger years. Maintenance (never a thought to in youth) is an on-going plan and event now. Some internal structures need replacing and some exterior structures need shoring up but we worry about diminishment of original design.
Yet we are proud to have features and places within us that don’t exist in the newer models. Our less than perfect lines tell a story of endurance and the ability to bend and not break. Our old fashioned places are a comfort to young children and aging men alike. When you look at us, you see the story of the passing of time and of being a participant in life. We have tales to tell and we have stood the test of time.
This old girl and I are quite happy together. We get along. We understand each other. We have patience with the things that take longer now. We have tolerance for each other’s short comings. We do not concentrate on our flaws, but rather, we celebrate our ever increasing wisdom and the lasting components of beauty that go untouched and undiminished by the ages.
