The thing I love most about old houses, and my old house, is the history behind them. The fact that my house has been standing here for 123 years– long before the neighbors were within shouting distance, long before the land had been carved and parceled and turned into residential streets–makes me feel more settled somehow. Steven and I haven’t gotten around to formally searching the old property records just yet, but we will. We’re part of this house’s story, as much as it is a part of ours, and we want to know who came before us, who made memories inside these walls.

We’ve even got a name on the wall…a signature and date etched long ago on the wall that is now our living room. It’s faded, and has been painted over and around, making it hard to decipher. But it’s there, and it’s a connection. And I like knowing that someone else loved this house so much that he wanted to leave a little something behind.

So Mr. Harry Freit—, thank you for taking such good care of the house. One of these days, we’ll find out what you were up to, writing on the wall, back in 1939.



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