The Old Man
The house was sore and cranky when we first walked through its rusty hinged door. Its old bones were creaking, and it seem to look out onto the world with sad eyes, complete with a crooked top hat fashioned from a drooping roof. Built by pioneers in what was certainly wilderness over three centuries ago, it had not been called home for more than two decades, and only occasionally played host to chickens and hay, keeping both dry and sheltered from spring rains or frosty winter days.
Like an old man propped on a cane, it just stood there crooked and bent by time, wasting away as pieces began to rust and rot, and then fall away. Weeds grew bolder and stronger, encroaching in and commandeering space, quietly stalking as if intuitive of its weakened state. Others stood like sentries guarding and protecting, keenly aware of its vulnerability as the elements battered year after year.
Get Ellenspoehr’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
It was a house that ached for the tender care of loving hands. Previous attempts had been made but quickly abandoned. Like a grandfather grown grumpy having lost his purpose in this world; perhaps due to the death of a beloved wife, the house itself drove people away. Imagine grandchildren rushing up in an attempt to climb on a lap only to be snarled at and rejected. They look right past the deep wrinkles and arthritic bones. They see only the soul and can’t help but persist with tearful eyes and tiny arms outstretched. Finally, the old man cannot resist as he drops to a knee to cuddle and comfort.
If the outside was bad, the interior was far worse. The stone foundation had begun to crack and crumble, unable to sustain the weight of the building it supported. This tipped everything out of kilter. Windows began to fracture; floors and walls sloped and then splintered pulling the house to one side or another. Rain and wind swept in dampening rooms that were once warm and dry. This was a house slowly imploding; no longer able to shelter as every system had long since failed.
Other people, those of sound mind and body would have walked away from the formidable task of restoring the old man. Some would have taken a bulldozer and demolished it, clearing space for some new and modern structure. But there was a call from this house. It was carried through the wind as it floated over the ridge across rolling hills and open farmland.
The call was for a fight — not a battle, but rather for brave warriors to undertake a heroic effort. It was a call for bold and fearless action to shore up and rebuild. It was a call to clean and sand aged floors until the grain shown forth in brilliant oak, to steady and buffer the slanting walls, to resurface beautiful stone stacked to form fireplaces that once gathered and warmed people. It was an invitation to join forces with time, reverse it and make it brand new.
In reciprocity our home gifted us with its wisdom and a grateful spirit. Now thirty years later it is a strong fortress, never once wavering on its promise to guard and protect. The old man, made new again, was blessed and sealed the day we called it home.
