For as long as I can remember, I’ve been drawn to old homes. Especially those with a front porch and hardwood floors and fireplaces.
Old homes have character. You know that if these walls could speak, they’d have plenty of stories to tell about families and memories and times of celebration and of sadness.
To me, new homes are just too cookie-cutter. They all look the same. They look like castles where people go to shut out the rest of the world.
Old homes always seem more inviting, like you expect to see someone on the front porch with a glass of sweet tea inviting you to sit a spell (as we say here in the South). I imagine that even the ghosts in old homes are friendly, like Casper (only slightly less annoying).
Maybe one day someone will leave me an old home in their will (hint, hint), along with a little extra money to help with the upkeep. That would be nice. I’m fairly certain that if I had a real genuine front porch, I’d almost never leave it but sit in my front porch swing and watch the people and cars passing by.
Old homes are a throwback to a simpler time and a slower way of life. Like Andy Griffith and Mayberry. A time when people were more satisfied with what they had and not always in such a hurry to acquire more and do more and possess more all the time.
I’m also open to house-sitting in an old house. Maybe for like four or five years, perhaps?
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