I had a rare drive home alone this evening from the shop. The big kids are with Tim’s parents and Baby E was with Tim.

With the help of Waze I decided to get lost on my way home. I knew with the address programmed in, I could make any turn I wanted and it would recalculate my way home. Before I knew it I was on a gravel road traveling through farm lands, driving past streams, pastures, and baby deer grazing on the side of the road. It was miles of slow traveling on a one lane road as the sun was setting.

As I drove along, I passed one house in particular that I had to stop for.

It was set very far off the road, and it was obviously uninhabited and had this been the mid eighties, I might have considered walking up to it and peering in the windows. I love old houses. I love the stories I don’t even know about them. I love their uneven stair cases, their claw foot bathtubs, their hot, stuffy attics and damp cellars. I love their character. They’ve seen life. They’ve watched families live, grow, and die. They are themselves a living history book, fodder for campfire ghost stories, and the nostalgia in the hearts of those whose feet have walked their halls.

I hope one day someone gives this house a second chance. I hope it hears laughter within its walls once again and that children will chase each other in the front lawn and play hide and seek in all of its crannies.

Houses like this are special.