Rough House

The realty sign in front of my favorite house in the neighborhood floods me with sadness. I’ve slowed in front of this abode on my walks for twenty-five years. It’s the house itself that is my fond neighbor. I’ve never seen a flicker of a human occupant. How could I not love its mystery, its haunted vibe, its suggestion of a fairy tale never told, a tale that never should be told.

For Sale. My melancholy recognizes and accepts the inevitably of change that comes with the march of time. But it’s the realty listing, its audacious marketing spin, that stirs a bit of anger into the ache.

Welcome to this hidden gem looking for someone to bring it back to life!

It’s tiny and overgrown. The better to miss it. The house wants it this way.

It used to be white. Or did it? The siding is a canvas streaked with tar and owl droppings weeping from the roof, punctuated by splatters of decomposing-leaf sludge, blue-gray mold, and fingers of bright green moss. It’s impossible to know what color the paint, last applied in the previous millennium, might have been.

Brimming with potential! A perfect canvas for creative buyers and investors.

It’s a dilapidated version of the children’s story, The Little House. City records tell me it’s the oldest home in the area, would have been alone among the orchards and pastures for several decades with its apple and plum trees and a murmuring creek that’s since gone underground. A hundred years on, the house has been swallowed, twice. Once by the crisp new homes and landscaped yards that eventually, inexorably went up around it. And once by its own flora, probably on purpose.

Lush native plants provide abundant privacy and shade.

The maples bend toward the house, camouflaging it in the summer and burying it in leaves—never raked, blown, or collected—in the winter. Some skitter away on the wind. Some wash away. Some return to the soil. Several firs shoot up through the maples to stand sentry during the barren months. What yard there may have been is now a tangle of blackberry and morning glory vines and wild shrubs, the native competing with the invasive. Sometimes I think I can still see the apple tree through the protective scrim of creepers, climbers, and scrub. Occasionally the tree will be the scene of a murder. Twenty-some crows strew themselves through its branches in the dawn hour, arguing strenuously over the news of their day. Then, in every other hour, silence. The house sighs with relief.

An adorable home with room to grow.

Call it a home, because could you even call it a house? It seems striving to be a cottage, maybe a cabin, or, to the ungenerous, a shack. With room to grow . . . what?

The square footage of the house measures in the mid three digits. Watch your step getting there. The mortar on the three narrow brick steps to the front door has given up at the corners and released the bricks. Notice the front “picture” window, flocked with grime like a Christmas scene defiled by spray foam from the neighbor’s teenager peeling by in his second-hand Mustang, late for school.

Compact layout for ease of cleaning and heating.

From just inside the front door, the house reveals its whole self, taken in with a single sweeping glance. The cluttered front room where the woodstove and the television face off, a balding velour sofa refereeing from under the window.

I know this because I once tried peering through the front window, compelled by momentary vibe to knock on the door and ask if anything was needed. My knuckles tingled in the stillness. A subtle breeze whooshed by, the balding sofa waving me off.

The bowl of the spoon represents the feminine principle, while the handle represents the masculine principle. When these two principles combine, they represent the harmony of the universe. Therefore, finding a spoon can suggest that you are about to experience a period of abundance and balance in your life. The handle of the spoon also represents support. It’s a reminder that you are not alone and that you have people in your life who will help and support you through anything.”

Cute kitchen and bathroom with vintage cabinets

The postage stamp kitchen hangs onto three sagging red cabinets. The house hangs onto the memory of the contents—the Kellogg’s corn flakes, the Campbell’s tomato soup, the Minute Rice whose Best Before moments in time expired with the turn of the millennium. Breathe deeply enough and you might catch an ethereal wisp of aroma from the Yuban coffee and Hershey bars. The kitchen’s spindle-legged table and chairs would fetch $20 at Goodwill, and the red checked oilcloth has probably seen a few fishing trips.

The bathroom would be only inches larger than need be for your knees to avoid knocking the tub when you sit. On chill morning when the heat from the woodstove has yet to reach, the idea of a cold shower takes on new meaning. On the coldest days, a shower becomes optional, or an afternoon affair. A spit bath in the living room with a pot of hot water and a threadbare washcloth might be the ticket.

Cozy, quiet master bedroom

The bedroom, at the back of the house, is big enough for a double bed. That’s it. See the dresser in the hallway? The mirror looks good over the bed—and you can wave to yourself from the front door. Honey, I’m home. But on moonlit nights, beware of scaring yourself on the way back from the bathroom.

Easy commute to town

An interstate freeway thunders overhead two blocks away. Bus exhaust perfumes the air on a major arterial three blocks away while the commuter train rumbles by on the half-hour. Location, location, location! Right?

Abundant shopping nearby

Holy smokes! Pass three cannabis shops, Vape4Less, Tobacco Time, and Hookah Haven as you cruise that arterial’s “very walkable” distance to the nearest supermarket. Or don’t pass them. Check out their competitive pricing and indulge. The house won’t judge when you come home smelling skunky. That kitchen window that’s hanging by single hinge might even creak open by itself. To air is human . . .

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For Sale. From behind the realty sign, the house seems to quiver with dread. It may be dilapidated and grimy but it has gone to pains to attract no attention. No overflowing garbage cans. No cratered cars or washing machines about. No loud parties, family arguments, blaring television, screaming yard machinery. The good neighbor.

It wants to be left in peace.

That’s all over now. The sign comes down. The pressure washers arrive. The maples come down, the morning glories and wild roses torn away. The brick steps jackhammered away. The house stands exposed and homely as a naked mole rat.

I can’t be witness to this violation. From the sidewalk, my heart sighs a tearful goodbye.

I change my route.

The house wants it that way.