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Illustration by Sarah Farquhar
I’d always been drawn to old things: antique furniture, vintage artwork and old houses. While house hunting, we found a big Edwardian place – complete with gingerbread trim, creaking hardwood floors, huge baseboards, a spacious porch and property full of mature trees. That, I figured, is where my soul belongs.
I could see myself entertaining (in a vintage dress, of course) in a charming parlour, a fire burning in the original fireplace. I’d accept compliments on the original hardwood floors and point out the delightful period features to admiring visitors. I would speculate on past inhabitants and yearn for life in a simpler time.
The reality of living in an old home – “loaded with period charm” as the real estate ads say – proved to be a little different from my vision. Our house has thick walls, built in 1911 to withstand whatever Mother Nature throws at us. But our one bedroom closet is little more than a cubbyhole (where did people actually put their clothes?), the mature trees discard enough leaves every fall to bury several small cars, and the enormous baseboards collect enough dust to write a novel in.
My first jolt of reality (well, after paying for all of the crumbling exterior stucco to be torn off, replaced and painted) was the discovery of a long-dead mouse, stuck to the basement floor. This wake-up call was followed closely by trails of mouse poop in the kitchen drawers. Turns out that was just a prelude to what came next. We started noticing moths appearing in our kitchen at dusk. Our freshly painted walls became smeared with dusty moth parts as I smashed our nightly visitors with a fly swatter. I repeatedly wiped out all the cupboards with vinegar, like Google told me to, to no avail. Eventually I caught a caterpillar crawling out of a peg hole in the cupboards, and finally realized what all those webs in all the little holes meant …. Time for a complete kitchen renovation!
It was during said renovation that we discovered a total lack of insulation in our outer kitchen wall, as well as a missing foundation under the back of the room. “Oh, that’s why the kitchen is so cold!” I pondered on these oversights, and concluded that woollen underwear must have been a big seller back in the day.
Then one night, my husband woke me with the unsettling announcement that there was a bat swooping around our bedroom. This was followed in the next year by bats number two, three and four, one of which I pulled, stiff and long-dead, off our furnace filter. Ah, the joy of an old house! When we got the roof replaced we were alerted to a six inch hole in the plywood under the crumbling roof tiles. More “period charm!”
The next home improvement project was the unfinished basement. White-washed stone foundation walls were quirky and interesting, but we wanted to increase our living space and perhaps make a “man cave.” Our house’s history as a triplex also meant that there were multiple sets of wires dangling from the basement ceiling. “You know this isn’t up to code?” one electrician casually informed us.
No, we didn’t know that, and when our contractor started banging holes in the basement walls strange things started happening. Our dog’s kibble mysteriously disappeared from her bowl and ended up piled in a corner. Insulation from the dishwasher door was strewn across the kitchen floor. We’d hear the scampering of clawed feet above our heads at night, and loud scratching in the walls.
So we hid the kibble. We set traps. We put poison out. Each morning our first task was the disposal of dead rats. We bought more traps, and put them inside the house and out. We tried to forget the squirrel-sized rodent that raced through our kitchen one day and disappeared into the wall. After frantically shoving a block of wood and some steel wool into the hole, we contemplated selling the house and moving to a brand-new high-rise.
Eventually the rodents got wise to our traps and poison, and moved to the back shed (which is made of wood and also very rustic and charming). From there they toured the backyard every night, helping themselves to all my homegrown tomatoes.
So here we are, in our 10th year of the Old House Experience. Happily, we reassessed our decision to move after the wildlife vacated the premises. We have enjoyed many hours on our spacious front porch, and I have gotten used to the antique armoire my clothes are stored in. It’s a bit small but oh, so pretty! We love our neighbourhood, complete with big trees and discovered that raking leaves is a great cardio workout.
After everything, I still love my old house. I like to know that history, both good and bad, has happened here. And when I am history, I hope someone else will love it, too.
Jenny Dunlop lives in Hamilton.