Just in case anyone's still out there, occasionally checking in on this neglected little blog, wondering how I am and how the house is:
we are fine; and
nothing much is new; but
we recently celebrated our ten-year anniversary.
Ten years ago in mid-November (I don't remember the exact date and my mortgage papers are locked up elsewhere) I moved into this house. It was the week before Thanksgiving. It was cold, but my son and I sat on the front porch until the wee hours of the morning talking and, every so often, I said in wonder, "My house. My. House." It was (and is) the first and only house I have ever owned. I still feel a sense of wonderment and gratitude and joy about owning my house.
Back then the house looked like this...
By the summer of 2009 the house was rid of her "too-big brown coat", as one of my friends called the cedar shingles, and we'd opened up the porch just a little...
And by the summer of 2016, she looked pretty darn close to what she looked like when she was built about 1887. (If you bigify this photo, you can just barely see the sweet little face of Louis Cat as he pushes the curtain aside to look out the window.)
I celebrated our anniversary by skipping through the house shouting, "I LOVE YOU!!" randomly at the original trim and the high ceilings and the stained glass windows and other things. I thought those declarations, together with all the nice things I've done for the house in the past ten years, would be a nice anniversary present.
Ah, but the house...she had other ideas....