GOD BLESS HOUSES!

“What I liked playing with as a child, I have liked playing with later in life.  Houses, for instance. . . I can see quite plainly now that I have continued to play house ever since . . . Houses!  God bless houses!”    ---   Agatha Christie

In June, before we had our house, I would ride with Mark in the mornings when he went to work and then spend his eight desk-hours prowling the downtown on foot.  This was most days for a month.  When I had exhausted the possibilities of familiar grounds, I broadened my excursions into surrounding neighborhoods.  Walking between office buildings had been like exploring an airport: fast-paced, ever-changing scenery, but highly impersonal.

Residential areas were exactly the inverse.  I saw fewer human beings and much less activity, and I felt more welcome.  If downtown had been an airport, these neighborhoods were a jolly family gathering at which I was related to no one and yet never begrudged participation in the surrounding merriment.  The office buildings had not wanted to be known, but these old Victorian homes were willing to be friends.

One house was of particular interest.  I happened upon it initially in what was clearly an in-between stage and began returning each day to see what progress had been made.  It was a trim, moderate Victorian and was being done in the painted-lady style, in four colors: one for the siding, another for the trim, and still two others for architectural details.  To be honest, I found the finished product somewhat uninspiring, but the self-appointed duty of monitoring the job gave me a further sense of connection to the neighborhood.  It was a daily inquiry into the well-being of a fond acquaintance.

Maybe, rather than as a person, it is more apt to consider a house as an outer garment worn collectively by the family within.  There are always people, and I can hardly fault them for it, who have higher priorities than clothing, and the same is true by extension for their houses.  But a house is to me what clothes are for the ones who devote laborious attention to their wardrobes.  Houses seem like people because it is so clear to my eye the ways in which the exterior reflects the people living inside.  There were less people to be seen in the conventional way in the neighborhoods than there were downtown, but I noticed all the unmistakable hints about taste and personality subtly reflected in the faces their houses presented to the passing-by world.

In recent weeks I have driven daily past a sweet old house while taking Mark to work in the mornings and picking him up in the afternoons.  Every step in the building of an elaborate, brand-new front porch has been easily available for scrutiny, and I have enjoyed the insight into the feelings of the homeowners.  It is a sturdy and luxurious porch, and the house, which is probably at least a century old, is deftly complemented by the addition; it is as though the porch has always been there, although I know very well how new it is.  My observations have given me the distinct feeling that the people whose home it is are very fond of this box that they live in.  It makes my house-loving heart glad.