aging....gracefully

When I say we inhabit an old farmhouse, I mean OLD.  Oh, sure, by European standards, it's not considered particularly ancient, but here, it pre-dates Confederation and is therefore a heritage property (euphemism for teetering pile of bricks).  We think it was built around 155 years ago, give or take.  But there's no teetering here, no sir! This place is as solid as they come, despite things like this

You know those groaning, settling, popping sounds old places sometimes make at night?  Not here, baby.  We are almost completely creak-free.  What we do have in spades, though, is quirks.  Crooked windows, angled floors, tight corners.  Nooks.  Crannies.  Too much space in some areas, not enough in others.  I could expound on this topic for ages (and I will, just not right now) since I am a champion expounder on all things old-house related, having lived here for eleven years.    There is a real sense of time having passed in an old house, of people having left their mark

But it's not a sad feeling, it's a comforting one.  We're just stewards of this place, it was here before we were, it'll probably be here after us.  This mildly melancholy, somewhat reflective post brought to you courtesy of: The hayseed.  (Wow, those pictures look a little creepy, non?)