Stirring Point

The winter winds have finally arrived and their northern chills seep through the cracks. Tufts of insulation slow their progress, but the cold wants in and it’s sure to find a way. After 118 years, our old home heaves with exhaustion at the thought of another winter. Heaving, of course, is still breathing, so it soldiers on with the labors of age.

The exterior brick stands firm and proud and shows only the least bits of wear. The inside, though, is a mashup of gaudy fixtures and dated charm. Emerald tiles with white-ribboned seams frame the hearth of the coal fireplace. When the light is right, a stained-glass pane pours red and blue shades across the hardwood floor. These are timeless items, framed by “form over function,” and keep the living room warm and welcoming. Families were raised here. Hearts were broken. Tears were dried. Smiles, rediscovered.

But the kitchen and bathroom are a visual assault. Shoddy craftsmanship and Father Time merged over decades and dismantled any allure. The tiles were slapped down in haste. Uneven floors required countertops to be shimmed. Cracks and holes in awkward spots invite mice inside to terrorize the unsuspecting.

With each year, the mud room out back sinks a centimeter lower below the earth. I patch and plug and stuff and caulk. Basement cement bleeds water during heavy rains. Wallpaper peels like birch bark above the windows. Tiles require prying; hardwood needs patching; my wallet needs a brown paper bag to slow its hyperventilation.

“The bones are good,” they tell me. “They really knew how to build ’em’ back then,” they say. Maybe so. But languid homeowners and 12 decades of Front Range weather will turn those bones to dust. All things fall victim to time’s relentless march. Piece by piece, objects fold into themselves and crumble. It starts small with a splinter in a sock. Then caked wallpaper buckles and folds. Over time, cracks in the ceiling fissure like broken ice. Eventually, basement brick crumbles with a thumb’s worth of pressure. All roads lead to renovations—surgery by the carpenter to delay the inevitable. 

For six years, I’ve done little. Disturbing walls and floors felt like opening a portal to construction hell. Some new roofing, a ton of spray foam, a few ceiling fans and a coat of paint have been my prime interventions. Now it’s time for a change. Our homes are an extension of who we are and I owe it to the place to take some pressure off its lungs. We can’t beat time, but with a little care, we can slow down her march.