Old houses hold so many stories, so many secrets, so many tall tales. No one knows them all, except for the house itself. If walls could talk, I would sit there all day and just listen.
To the stories about the original builders of the home. The excitement they felt when they first moved in. Stories of the births and the deaths, the weddings and the birthday parties that must have taken place within those walls.
The different sales that happened. Old families moving out and new families moving in. And then, somewhere down the line, for reasons unknown to those passing by, the old people moved out but no one moved in.
And the house began to weather and wane. The grasses grew taller and the trees began moving in.
I wonder what the house would say now. Is it sad, is it lonely? Or perhaps quiet and content? A big part of me wants to restore the house to it’s former beauty, giving it more stories to hide within it’s walls.
But today I cannot do that. So I will just preserve it with pictures.
Groovy Tales of a Well Adult 