This Old House

Four years ago this weekend, I was moving into my apartment in an almost 200-year-old house in the historic district. At the time, the air conditioner was broken; the cornering turns on the spiral staircase were back-breaking; and I was totally in love with everything about it. After living a year in a complex, there was something refreshing about living in a house - even if it wasn't my house.

These days, the air conditioner works (as the power bill will show), but I still get winded on the last turn on the stairs leading to the second floor landing. And there are still so many things I love about it. I love the huge oak tree that fills up the ten foot windows on two sides of the house. And the black wrought iron scrollwork on the porches. And the bright yellow-colored stucco and the red roof. I love my hardwood floors and the afternoon light on the westside of the house. I love the wide windowsills that my cat likes to lounge in all day long.

But there are other things - things I didn't notice on that day so many years ago when I was enamored with the space and the high ceilings and the two nonworking though aesthetically-pleasing fireplaces. Things like the strange goo that sometimes seems to settle over the dishes after they've been washed. The tiny bathroom with no ventilation that's like a sauna in the summer and an icebox in the winter. The perpetually leaking faucets that produce an almost maddening drip-drip-drip in the middle of the night. The impossibility of properly heating or cooling the expansive rooms. The lack of a proper closet - oh, how I miss a real closet. And there's no washer or dryer, meaning I've always got to lug my laundry up and down the dreaded stairs to get it clean. And lastly, but most dear to my heart, there is no dishwasher. NO DISHWASHER. With God as my witness, I will never go dishwasherless again.

Occasionally, I'm overcome with fear of ghosties in the darkness of my apartment in the wee hours. It's an old house, and I've noticed in the last year or two that the ghost walks they lead for tourists come by here. A former neighbor once told me that he woke up to find his bedroom filled with the ghost of ex-slaves. I've never had such a misfortune, although I find the kitchen particularly creepy late at night. But in the end, it's going without a dishwasher that's most frightening.