Everyone wants an old house. Chip and Joanna made them a thing, but some of us have embodied the mystery, intrigue, and uniqueness only old houses can offer up for most of our lives. My childhood home was a turn of the century church that sat on Buckner Boulevard until the late 60s. Just before the wrecking ball crashed through the seven gabled roof with the rows of stained-glass windows, my father laid claim to this free building and paid through the nose to have it moved twenty-four miles to the outskirts of Seagoville, in three pieces, even. While most of the gables had to go and the interior was reassembled with unclaimed freight remnants, it was a lovely story to tell. In 2018, I stood on a curb in Salem, Massachusetts, and gazed upon the home of Nathaniel Hawthorne, the OG seven gabled abode. I felt my eyes tearing up. Was this what my childhood home looked like at one time? There is something about the places we put our hands every day that gives me pause to consider all the other hands that have rested there. It’s a beautiful thing, until winter.
In this old house, for instance, we have an extra wide front door, a must back in 1910. How else could you hold a wake in the parlor if the casket couldn’t fit through the door? Did I mention the extra wide gaps where blue northern winds gust into the foyer? Even the remodeled, foam insulated, 2.0 version gets bone chilling cold when the temps drop. Our drafts can be measured in mph increments. Exterior wall plumbing fixtures are especially difficult to manage in hard freezes. Cabinet doors are left open. Faucets must drip a little more than a slab foundation home. We walk around doubly layered and amply socked, our bones moaning and clicking. It’s a doable thing, until spring.
Texas springs are exercises in confusion. The crescendo of unseasonably warm days followed by cold snaps followed by torrential winds and horrendous rains wreak havoc on allergies. Things bloom and bloom again and freeze and bloom yet again. The critters begin to multiply. We have coyotes walking down the street in downtown Forney. If one knocks on my extra wide front door wearing a three-piece suit and a monocle, I won’t be shocked. When I speak of critters, I am not suggesting the furry ones are the real enemy. The creepy crawly ones are what send us into turmoil. The snakes begin to emerge from the depths of the Trinity River. They slither over the river and through the back pasture. To my very house they go. It’s not a huge issue, knock on antique wood, since snakes and cats don’t mix. The semi-socialized, sterile ferals we caretake keep them at bay. It’s the bugs. Sigh. It’s time for all the bugs. And by bugs, you know what I mean, the dreaded water bug. I just threw up in my mouth a little.
Recently, we hosted our church small group. I cooked. I baked. I cleaned to oblivion. I reorganized cabinets. I scrubbed toilets. I lit candles. I sequestered animals. As we sat to discuss Sunday’s sermon, I admired all my hard work. There wasn’t a hair out of place. There wasn’t a dust molecule
in sight. I had just taken a sip of perfectly percolated decaf when the lady next to me exclaimed. “Oh my gosh! I think I see a ___ in your kitchen!” We follow the Harry Potter rules with this specific bug. We mustn’t use its government name. My husband leapt from his perch on the loveseat. Like a Marvel hero, he raced through the living room, vaulting past the rest of our guests as he grabbed the roll of paper towels and landed on the insect in one felled move. “I’ve got it! It’s dead,” he said. Another guest responded with an anatomy lesson of said bug, telling us how they can survive headless for months. Next came a period of excruciating silence. I broke the spell with a slew of nervous talking. “Welcome to life in a 115-year-old house.” I recall giving a micro lecture on how there was nothing separating the dirt underneath from the interior except a very old original wood floor. Eventually, we resumed our talk. After everyone left, my husband confided in me that he only pretended to kill the bug. In reality, it scurried into a crevice he could not reach. We sat speechless, the realization of what it feels like to become the pariahs of the house with that certain bug felt heavy.
Yesterday the exterminator came. He sprayed the perimeter, inside and out. “I didn’t see any evidence of THAT bug,” he said. “I didn’t see any bug evidence at all.” I almost asked him to let me video him so I could send it to our friends. As he was leaving, after setting up a series of visits, he told me that he’d knocked down 52 wasp nests from around the bungalow’s deep-set overhang. That’s what I chose to text the friends. Like a bait and switch, perhaps I can get them more interested in a wasp infestation and how they narrowly avoided being swarmed. Time is surely our friend in this circumstance. One day they’ll all forget about the bug. We already have plans to engineer a mouse sighting at the next small group meeting. The mouse is on us, wink, wink. Taxidermy is a talent.
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