All the pretty little (old) houses

No, I did not grow up hearing all of the traditional nursery rhymes morphed into subjects about old houses, or twisted to relate to them. The title of today's blog was simply a product of my imagination and a convenient title to the idea that has been forming in my head between last Wednesday and today.

Albeit, one could probably make a nursery rhyme about old houses, don't you think? Or a children's book? But I'll leave that to people who actually know stuff about such things, and continue with today's topic! And yes blog readers, the streak of music-related posts has ended and once again I fall back on that ever so comfortable, over-stuffed couch I sink into again and again.

The reason for the twist on the nursery rhyme title perhaps is the final key into the lock you all need to truly label me as an old house fanatic. Well, I say, swing that door wide! For i will run through it and dance on the threshold. I make no secret of it, and therefore find it amusing that I truly can make anything relate to old houses.

Over the years that I have become more and more of an old house fanatic I've spotted many old houses in various places, and unfortunately most of those times I have either been minus a camera, or the person driving was unable to stop so I could take a picture. Also, it could have something to do with the fact that I don't drive, therefore I am at the whim of whoever happens to be behind the wheel, and for the most part said person isn't as estatic about the old house I've spotted as I am. How to convert them, I wonder? That's a good question.

While thinking up today's blog post, I started recalling all of the old houses i've spotted over the years, and because of a lack of pictures - not the mental kind mind you! - those pictures are foggy and distorted, like aged window panes over the years that seem to meld into the transparent air, returning to the liquid sand that bore them. But, there is hope. I have faith that at one time I will eventually get pictures of all the old houses taking up residence in my head, so they no longer only have an existence in my mind. I yearn for concrete evidence, evidence of my obsession, my passion, and the whimsical or dilapidated architectural features that snagged my gaze along a narrow country road, or a busy highway, or sitting silently atop a hill above a random road taken on the way home.

That's just it! Most of the old houses I love and don't have pictures of are scattered around my hometown of Sheboygan, like a spider web torn by the wind, hanging in rags, useless to the spider who once lived there, but still the web is connected, even if by a few transparent threads that only the spider can see, and still travel. For instance, I recall the latest old house I've spotted. There's a highway my parents travel when bringing me back and forth from college to Sheboygan, and just beside an overpass alongside the highway is a fairly large light blue and light pink Victorian. I yearn to see it up close, and of course get a picture of it.

When I glimpse such old houses I am always in motion, and usually that motion is on a country highway so I am allowed but a fleeting glimpse, just enough time for the details and outline of said old house to stick itself to my memory, where hopefully it will leak through the cracks and holes into a temporary filing cabinet somewhere in my mind, a special room where such vague and fragile 'photographs' are stored, like a black room - is that what they're called? - where photo's delicately come to life amidst the liquid and dark.

There is a major difference between spotting an old house and watching it slide by like an old fashioned film reel going in fast forward, and viewing each slide at your own pace. You can sit there, your finger on the 'next' button and not hit it for a full five minutes, just taking in the picture, every aspect of it. I feel the same way with all of the old houses caught up in my mind. I yearn to just stand there, camera poised in front of me, its eyes unblinking, as are my own, just feeling every paint-peeled wooden siding, or foggy-paned window...with my eyes.

There's another old house I think of, an abandoned farm actually, on the way to my great aunt's farm in Upper Michigan. Last August - which was unfortunately the last time I was there - I convinced my parents to stop alongside the road so I could take a couple of pictures of the farm. The house, bearing the familiar gray-brown siding and sagging roof, was obviously abandoned for quite a few years, as was the barn. I had always searched that side of the road for it, waiting for it to appear so I could catch a longer glimpse this time, but now...I have pictures! But once I've been away for a while and look back on those pictures I realize...they're not enough. I want more! Which is natural probably, you think of better angles, a spot you could've zoomed way in on, etc. All you can hope for is to return once again to the site and hopefully have a chance to snap away to your heart's content. Albeit if that were the case, I'd be at some sites for hours! Some day perhaps that will be the case. A girl can dream right?

Some 'old house sites', per se, I haven't returned to for probably well over a year or two, which is just the way of life I guess, but that doesn't mean I have to like it! Now, you might be thinking, with such a strong itch and a wandering eye coupled with a heart swelling for love of old houses, wouldn't that be enough to push me past the fear of driving? And the answer is...no. Ironic? Maybe. Hard to understand? Perhaps. But that's the way I am, and I guess another factor is the fact that I can't afford a car anyway, and who needs the extra cost for gas and maintenance right? Now that may be a cynical and very limited way of looking at the fact of owning a car, but I guess that's always been my take on it.

And yes, I do dream about taking weekend, totally aimless drives through the countryside, just following my heart's whimsy, whatever road looks appealing, wherever I spot a good opportunity for a photo or of course...wherever I spot a tantalizing old house. I also dream about meeting someone - and I'm not talking boyfriends here, just in case you got the wrong idea! - who holds such a passion as mine, someone I can peruse the countryside with, with a fine-tooted comb, someone to glide over the pockmarked roads with.

But anyway, enough about my wanderlust heart and constant itch for travel that always rubs like coarse sandpaper against the delicate flesh of the reality of my bank account, my lack of a vehicle or driver's license and most ironic of all...lack of people around me who share my interest of the countryside, and hunting for old houses to take pictures of. Perhaps, now that i reflect on it, these desires and passions were placed in me for me to overcome such obstacles as my fear of driving. But, like I said before, enough about me reflecting on the ironies in my life. Hell, you've probably spotted them all already, right?

Back to the old houses in my head! And you know when you read that, i mean that in the most literal sense there is. There's one such old house I was fortunate enough to get a few pictures of over Thanksgiving break, but unfortunately I haven't been back since to get some better pictures. Yes, there I said it, I'm complaining about the quality of the pictures. When I know I shouldn't be when there are some other old houses taking up residence in my head that are still wisps of fading memory and pure resilience, not yet having the privilege to take concrete form in a picture - on my computer and Facebook anyway. But still, it's disheartening to snap a few pictures, finally able to stand before the beautiful structure itself and then go back to look at the pictures on your computer and go...oh, the sun's blocking it out, or the angle's wrong, or it's too dark. Why? Why does this happen?

Oh no, I sense a rant coming, something akin to 'it's unfair' and 'my parent's camera sucks' and stuff like that, but I'll spare you and will instead dive into a story about one of my most beloved old houses that I haven't seen in what is probably two years, or at least a year. Well, in any case, too long! Like most of the 'pretty little old houses' holed up in my head, I have inserted them into novellas I've started. Perhaps this is just another attempt on my part to immortalize them, because perhaps from the moment I glimpse them alongside the road I know I could not have the privilege of doing so again for a very long time. So perhaps I have my own black room in my head, preserving these impromptu mental pictures immediately, like flash freezing fruit in Florida when you know the temperatures are going to drop dangerously low.

Well, that was quite odd, flash freezing fruit and a black room all the same metaphor. Then again, it is my head and mind we're talking about, so perhaps that isn't so odd after all. Anyway, back to the beautiful old house I was talking about. So there's this horse rescue farm I volunteer at during the summer and spring - and when I lived at home while attending college, during the winter too - there's two routes to take there, one involves the highway, and one involves the countryside. Now if you honestly have to think about which one I desire more, then perhaps you could re-acquaint yourself with my blog posts!

I remember along that country route to said horse farm there were quite a few charming old houses, which is expected right? But perched atop a hill branching off of the highway, vines twisting and arching delicately up the cream city brick was the most beautiful Colonial-style home I'd seen in a long time. It had a hipped roof, ornamental brackets underneath the deep overhang, a covered front porch and black shutters. How could I remember all these over a span of possibly two years? Because of the black room in my head, and the flash freezing too! Okay, that's not really it. Perhaps I have a photographic memory, or there really is some metaphorical black room in my mind that instantly preserves such mental images, until I can capture them on film, and they live forever on my computer. So technically, my laptop is an extension of my mind, is it not?

Okay, today's blog post is making me ask all kinds of weird questions. Introspective questions I usually leave for characters in my novellas. But like I was saying, it was a beautiful home, and it frustrates me that I can't clearly picture it now, or even worse, find myself doubting my own mental picture, wondering if it's blending with another picture, or perhaps I am imagining qualities of it that aren't really there. Such questions as these are why I yearn so fiercely to get a solid picture of all of these old houses, so I don't have to wonder anymore, don't have to feel the weight of that filing cabinet against my conscious, or feel their presence lingering every time I work on the novellas they're in.

Perhaps these are also the reasons I have thought more and more of becoming a traveling photographer and writer. I could capture all of these old houses, and more, in all fifty states! Now you're probably definitely thinking I am an old house fanatic, and have more than a little itch for travel. One day I promise to follow the whimsy of my heart, and the haphazard path of my eyes, and see what my camera can capture, and what pictures I can paint in my mind, and paint into words into a novella. Some day...soon.