I grew up on this property. When my parents died, this acre was left to me at their request. Things have changed a lot since my childhood. Trees barely taller than I was grew into giants, the house grew a second story, and at least a dozen other houses sprouted up in the fields nearby. The sunny acreage where I could see the drive-in movie screen 2 miles away has become shrouded in shade with a half-acre visibility during the summer when the maples are fully adorned with their huge leaves. In the shadiest areas, the blackberry vines now compete with moss and sword fern.
The house, which smelled of new lumber when I was really young, now smells musty, has floors that roll like waves, and makes enough creaky sounds to play a part in a scary movie. Even scarier are all the repairs that need to be done to make this house “normal.” Most of my relatives think the house is about to fall down and should therefore be torn down and replaced. I might have agreed until a tall tree fell on the house about five years ago. The house shook for a few seconds but it’s still standing. I’m thinking the old place has pretty good framework, it’s just everything else (like the plumbing and wiring and doors and windows and...) that needs repaired. It looks a mess, but I feel safe living in it. It’s not ideal, but until I find a buyer willing to pay enough that I can buy something more suitable for me, this old place is home.
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