This Old House

When I first met Jack he was in the process of buying a farm. “There’s a 125-year-old house on it,” he told me. 

I pictured a stately stone mansion.

“Not exactly,” he said. “It’s fairly small and apparently the bricks fell off when they propped up the foundation a few years ago. It has aluminum siding, though.”

“I’ll bet it has character,” I said, hopefully.

“Sure,” he said, with a wry smile. “Lots of that.”

And so it did. If by character you mean a set of stairs that literally sloped in two different directions, one closet in the whole house (frequently visited by squirrels) and a bow in the roofline visible from the road. Additional features included a unique round corner in the kitchen (where someone closed a gap in the wall by wrapping a piece of sheet metal around it), and holes in the ceiling and walls where old woodstove pipes used to be. When the east wind blew, the living room curtains moved. Yes, it was one and a half storeys of country charm.

The house did have history. Originally built by one of the Scottish settlers to the area, it served as a travelers’ inn during stagecoach days. The first owner was a beekeeper, and the neighbourhood became known as Beehive. At some point in years gone by, the living room doubled as a granary. I guess you had to be there.

With considerable help from my future mother-in-law, we papered and painted. New furniture, some cute curtains and a few bargain pieces of floor covering turned the little house into our cozy home. Jack built some extra closets and installed a new door and windows in the back room. Other than that, we spent no money on renovations, aiming to replace it someday.

Frail barriers
Ten years and three kids later, it was time. I had grown quite attached to our humble abode. I wasn’t really sure about building another. But dry-rot infested the hand-hewn beams in the basement. The foundation was crumbling. The house had served its purpose well.

We moved into our new home in February 1988. It felt like a castle to us. That summer Jack began tearing down the Beehive Inn. 

As demolition progressed, I marvelled at the frail barrier between us and the elements. All that protected us was old lath and plaster, some ragged insulation and the aluminum siding, along with random pockets of walnut shells. (Thank you, squirrels.) Such was our haven of warmth and refuge for a decade. The place where I had felt safe and secure was soon leveled and buried. No trace remained.

That wee house comes to mind during this COVID-19 crisis. So many familiar comforts and conveniences – things I had unwittingly come to depend on – are now inaccessible. We’re inundated with new restrictions almost daily while governments scramble to protect us during the pandemic. Families fear losing their homes and livelihoods. Businesses suffer. Some will never reopen. People are frightened and frustrated, but still trying to make the best of a bad situation.

I’m amazed at how flimsy the framework of our culture and economy really is, and how easily it can be damaged or potentially destroyed. What seemed so solid and strong is in fact only a house of cards. One mighty wind and it all collapses. 

Overwhelming? Almost – but we know that this old house will stand until its builder says, “Time’s up.” And then his children will go to a new, unspeakably beautiful palace. Only then will we understand how this place we once called home was, in truth, a fragile fortress.