The Pulse of My Home

Posted on Wednesday, January 23, 2008 at 09:44

I think every home has its own pulse.  A heartbeat that envelopes the people who live there, and shapes them in small ways.

Our home is called "Moss Pots," because when we first moved here, there was a delapidated old potter's shed in back of the barn.  It had stacks of old terra cotta pots that had probably been there for many years.  They were covered with lichen and moss, and had no doubt, been put to good use for many years, before being retired.  Somehow, I felt that those pots were a symbol of the perserverance of the old house.  A harken to dig in, and put down roots.  That impression has stuck with me, and when I grow weary in the restoration of this house, I just think back to those pots, stacked in the corner, waiting patiently for loving hands and warm earth.

There have been many instances like that.  For some reason, this house has had its share of odditties, and I have come to think of them as what makes this house uniquely our own.  For instance, when we first moved in, many of the windows had small peices of paper towel carefully placed at corners and sill.  I remember thinking why in the world would anyone do that?  It didn't take us long to figure that out, our first winter!  The widowed lady who had lived here for many years had more smarts than we knew, for the first blustery night, there were strange whistles and breezes that came to welcome us.  The hardware store was the first place to visit, the next morning!  Now, there are no whistles, and no errrant breezes, because we have sealed and even replaced some of the worst offenders.  I do have to admit, though, some part of me admires that woman's ingenuity!

This house has been a source of inspiration, and sometimes, of aggrivation!  When attempting to clean window transoms over the doors, I quickly understood why they would not open, because they had been painted shut!  Errrrrr!  I thought I would lose my mind, trying to scrape paint from the sides of the wooden casings.  And the attic....I found a multitude of boxes and one trunk filled with old clothing and scraps of fabric, cut in odd shapes.  There were also broken lamps, a table with scarred top, and wobbly legs, and an old mirror, trimmed in gilt that had spotted with age.  It seemed there was a lifetime of left-over knick knacks that had little use.  I quickly found that was not the case.

Upon some further cleaning, I found some letters and several notebooks filled with spidery script, and love tokens.  In one of them, the mirror that I was about to haul off was described. It was a smal notation on a page dated Sept.2, 1942.  "One mirror, recieved from Daniel, said to have once hung in a plantation house on Congaree."  Oh my, was I thrilled!  Needless to say, the mirror never made it to the dump!  It now resides in and in a place of honor over Pumpkins bedroom fireplace.

The old clothing was examined by my oldest DD, and she found several treasures.  Apparently, one box was filled with the elderly lady's wedding veil, and even her honeymoon unmentionables.  Denise has since laundered, pressed and folded them away, unable to bear the thought of them being disposed.

So, I guess the pulse of this old house is a true love for the history of its inhabitants.  I feel at home now.  And when I leave for the day, spending some time away, and pull back into our drive, it as if Moss Pots is waiting to welcome me.  The old door creaks when I open it, and the floor squeaks when it is trod upon.  But, no matter it's peculiarities, it is home.