It was one of those Southern Spring nights where it is almost rude to stay inside. The kind of weather where the breeze is so warm that it feels like you’re being wrapped up in the most perfect kind of blanket.
I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of walking around our neighborhood; with every house I pass, a new potential of history lingers in my mind blooming stories upon stories upon stories of the families that live (or have lived) in them. I love these streets so much that it already makes me sad to think about a time when I won’t be surrounded by such stately brick and wise tree branches.
Have you ever really looked at an old house? I’m talking about studying it for so long that you feel almost like you’re untying its walls and challenging its roots in a staring competition of its merit. At first, the house will stare back and stand up tall wondering why you are daring to intrude on it’s privacy. Don’t be intimidated. Old houses like these just aren’t used to this type of flirtatious attention. After a few minutes though, it will begin to trust your subtle pressure and it will lean into you out of its own pure curiosity. You will show it your face and an earnest furrowed brow so it will show you it’s toothiness and it’s knobbed knees. The cracked paint and the muscular columns. It will share all its secrets with you as long as you share one too. It will smile. Or it won’t. It may growl. Or scream. But you and that house will know each other forever.