I stand at the foot of the stairs letting every imperfection in the iron steps make its way into my memory. I know the solid grates of each tread and repeated decorative swirls of the risers are familiar to me, yet I had never noticed the broken tip of this curl or the unevenness of that riser, the way the curls roll into each other peripherally toward a slight misalignment at the center. My eyes linger on the imperfections as I wonder if they will remain in my memory or if my mind will make them perfect, once again, as I always see them. As I stand contemplating my front steps, I wonder how it is that my mind sees them whole and new and perfect, when clearly they are none of those things.
It’s like the house itself; I have passed through these doors so many times that I could not count, having touched every inch of its surfaces, and having dug into its walls, yet all my mind sees is the finished work, the exacting details, the symmetry and the freshly repaired. Fourteen years of my life entering and exiting these brick walls. Fourteen years of passing from sunshine into electric light; from starlight into the warmth of incandescence, and back again. It would seem that these passages have aged me, while at the same time, the house is turning back the hands of time. It is like the watching your child grow stronger, smarter, more capable, taller. While at the same time you become weaker, more forgetful, more easily tired, and somehow smaller.
I wonder sometimes if there is a deeper connection between those of us who lovingly restore and maintain the edifices of our Country’s history, and our homes themselves. Each of us is drawn to a certain period of architecture, wedded to it almost. We seek out furniture, decorative items, and history from that period. We enjoy sharing our stories and treasures with others who love these old houses, and we carry the homes in our consciousness even when we are not present, nestled within their confines. Unlike the homes of “normal” people, we live within history itself. A burden and a gift at the same time.
It is with an almost shock of realization that I acknowledge that I have spent more than a third of my life, easily half of my adult life, restoring this house. The photos from our early days of cleaning, planning, and discovering, shows the version of me that I still have in my mind, yet the outer shell of myself is now somehow different.
I can see my knuckles, more prominent than before. Years of holding a scraper in hand, the repetition of motions carefully lifting off layers of paint softened by the scorch of the heat gun. The delicate effort of control; scraping with dental tools, getting into every crevice to loosen the stubborn flakes of white, green, pink, and blue without leaving any trace of my presence on the solid wood beneath. The hours of scraping, sanding and cleaning the wood until it shone with a newness not seen for almost one-hundred-and-forty years. The tendons standing more prominent on the backs of my hands, evidence of the long hours of their application in useful labor. I become aware of the tiny crinkling of the surface that was once-smooth as smooth as silk. The skin on my hands has now taken on the look of layers and layers of old paint, rough and irregular, while the woodwork in the house gleams with the fresh shine of new paint adhering to freshly-milled wood for the first time in years.
Where once the scars of wood were laid open by some careless person holding a large and unwieldy object. Where others wantonly drove hardware into its backbone to support window treatments long since out of fashion and removed. Evidence where someone tacked up a decorative item, perhaps a part of the extensive Christmas decorations found moldering in the attic. Now the trim lies smooth and fresh, the wounds healed over and invisible under its new coating. While the white patch of the burn on my arm now lies as smooth as the skin around it, the memory of the wounded flesh burned from the falling heat-gun is still fresh in my memory. Every year it gets slightly darker, but it will remain forever, a reminder of my labors.
The floor joists in the front parlor, once collapsing upon themselves with the voids of termites burrows flowing through them, are now repaired and whole once again. Stronger than before, they now support the weight of a life-sized marble statue and pedestal, a tribute to the strength within them. The bones in my broken foot, however, continue to remind me of how well my body is able to heal itself, while at the same time the twinges and aches of that spot are evidence that the human body, unlike this grand structure, is not capable of a perfect repair, much less an improvement on the original unbroken part.
The exterior of the house, the part that is visible for all of the world to see, is a glorious expanse of red brick and windowed eyes looking back. It was white when we found it, and we painstakingly removed the years from its face, so that it now looks back at us with a youthful visage, proud, tall, and strong. My own visage, however, is trending more toward the white as of late. Though I escaped the familial tendency to go grey at an early age, the grey has not forgotten the tendrils of my long hair altogether.
I imagine that it will not be too many years before the house and I have exchanged places altogether. My solace being that when my body is too tired, when I can no longer draw forth the vigor that now sustains me, and when I require a place to retire, to rest, and to contemplate; my younger self can be thanked for having restored such a glorious place for repose and I will have a youthful old house to shelter and protect me through the last phase of my life. For now, however, I will pick up my tools and contemplate the list of projects before choosing the occupation for the day.
Carla Minosh
While I am new to Blogging, I have always enjoyed sharing the stories of my crazy life, so this is simply another medium to share, and hopefully entertain and enrich others. Perhaps you can feel thankful that your life is so steady and predictable after reading these, perhaps you can appreciate the insanity and wish you had more of it in your life. Either way, the crazy tales are all true (to the best of my spotty recollection) and simply tell the tale of a life full of exploration, enthusiasm, curiosity and hard work. I hope you all enjoy being a part of the journey.
Once again, I continue to be awestruck at all your fine work.
It is a THRILL seeing the before/after images.
I live in Va Beach, played Tourist in Danville one day a few years ago, saw your home and absolutely fell in love with it on first sight (I am a huge architectural fan).
Thank you for sharing – I was so curious as to what it looks like inside and wondering if it's under restoration. You have done a Great Job!