I’ve been standing in this same spot, give or take an inch or two, for a hundred years. There abouts, anyway- they didn’t keep such good track of things when I was born, but the county treasurer’s records say I existed in 1909 but not in 1908. But let me tell you, I’m feeling it- every windstorm and every three-foot snow and every blistery hot day of the last hundred years. I got about sixteen legs and they’re all stiff as boards, if you pardon the expression. They never bothered to give me a proper foundation so I’ve been balanced on little piles of rocks and dirt this whole time, and that’s hard on your feet. Sometimes I can feel the tiny bugs rooting around in there, chewing away at my flesh in little microscopic mouthfuls. Doesn’t hurt, really, it’s just a reminder that everything comes to an end, eventually.
I’m not much to look at these days. If you were to pass by on the one-lane dirt road, you’re more likely to be looking up at the startling walls of Eldorado Canyon than noticing my siding hanging at peculiar angles, or the thin nine-pane windows that wrap around my walls. You might think it odd that my old hipped roofs are pierced with modern skylights, or that the second-story front door hangs in space, echoing the ghost of a collapsed stairway. But you’d probably just walk on by, wondering with passing curiosity if anybody actually lives in there.
All my life I’ve watched places around me burn down, be torn down, fall down, and be reconfigured in the most God-awful ways. I just about went down the same path back in 1973. Thought I’d been left for good when year after year went by with no people showing up, even for summer vacation. Then the hippies found me and dragged their mattresses in through the broken windows. I’ve never seen such crazy things as what went on during their reign. That’s when I got condemned, along with nine other hippie-infested cabins. The county commissioners went on and on in the newspaper about ‘fire traps’ and how they couldn’t believe people actually live in those cabins. I was insulted. Just because a few shingles are falling off doesn’t mean I’m ready for the bull dozer. Uggh- makes my bones ache just to think about it.
I watched the other nine buildings be executed, right in front of me. But in a last-minute twist of fate, I was spared. Word got out that Dwight and Mamie Eisenhower had spent their honeymoon in me, and the local historians couldn’t stand the thought of losing a little piece of the past. It’s true- they were here. They say walls have ears, and we do. Eyes too. We have mouths, but there’s an unspoken agreement between us and those with arms and legs. You build us, we keep your secrets. It’s worked pretty well- never been broken as far as I know. So I can’t tell you exactly what went on with Dwight and Mamie but let me just say it was one of the sweetest exchanges that ever took place in that tiny back bedroom.
I’ve had a good life. Only four owners in all these years, and I do believe they each loved me in their own way. I’ve held them all as best I could- the summer vacationers with all those loud little children, the loving spouses and the fighting spouses, the scratching cats and the piddling dogs and the gracious guests. I’ve had a front row seat for all the things that go on behind closed doors, and I’ve learned that there are people who tromp hard in their boots and slap the walls to make a point, and there are people who glide smoothly through a space like swans in still water. But I’ve watched long enough to see that everyone laughs, everyone cries, and underneath it all, everyone just wants to be happy.
This last one has been my favorite, though. Thirty one years she’s been walking nice and gentle across my wooden floors. She’s the one that fell in love with me. Thanks to her I finally got a layer of insulation to get me through the winters, forced air heating to warm my belly when the woodstove went out, even plumbing. And eleven skylights! It was like seeing God when that light shone through for the first time. And then she got serious with somebody and there were two of them, and two cats that scan the neighborhood from my roof. Even better.
But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that nothing lasts forever. People, buildings, cats- nothing. What gets me is that they talk about it all the time, out loud, right there in my living room, surrounded by the knotty pine paneling that is as rich and warm as the day I was built. They talk about how they’re going to take me apart, piece by piece, starting with the roof and working their way down the walls until there is nothing left here but a big gaping hole in the ground. I don’t know if they notice the slight trembling that overtakes me when they talk like this. I guess I’ve outlived the odds so long that I was starting to think that I would escape that ultimate fate- that in spite of my lack of foundation and unpractical design, they would let me gradually decay into a natural death. I cringe and creak when they talk about prying boards from the walls and knocking down my chimney. The first one’s pretty good with tools, but the second one- she can’t even drill a screw straight. The thought of her coming at me with a crowbar in hand is enough to make me want to light a match right now. Sometimes I wish they would have the decency to take that kind of talk outside.
When I steady myself and listen carefully, though, I realize that they have spared me the instantaneous demolition of the wrecking ball so they can re-use my parts. Better to go out in one blaze of glory than months of agonizing pecking and picking, I think, but I appreciate the consideration. And I can’t even count the number of nights I’ve stayed up into the wee hours with her at the computer, evolving a design that looks a little bit like me. Once she finally goes to bed I console myself with the thought that my two-by-fours will live on, that my wall boards will become subflooring, and my beautiful knotty pine will be transformed into kitchen cabinets. As I settle down for the night I remember to count my blessings, to have the rare privilege of being ushered into the next life with respect and love. I just wish they could tell me one thing. Is it going to hurt? (written 6/16/08)
I’m not much to look at these days. If you were to pass by on the one-lane dirt road, you’re more likely to be looking up at the startling walls of Eldorado Canyon than noticing my siding hanging at peculiar angles, or the thin nine-pane windows that wrap around my walls. You might think it odd that my old hipped roofs are pierced with modern skylights, or that the second-story front door hangs in space, echoing the ghost of a collapsed stairway. But you’d probably just walk on by, wondering with passing curiosity if anybody actually lives in there.
All my life I’ve watched places around me burn down, be torn down, fall down, and be reconfigured in the most God-awful ways. I just about went down the same path back in 1973. Thought I’d been left for good when year after year went by with no people showing up, even for summer vacation. Then the hippies found me and dragged their mattresses in through the broken windows. I’ve never seen such crazy things as what went on during their reign. That’s when I got condemned, along with nine other hippie-infested cabins. The county commissioners went on and on in the newspaper about ‘fire traps’ and how they couldn’t believe people actually live in those cabins. I was insulted. Just because a few shingles are falling off doesn’t mean I’m ready for the bull dozer. Uggh- makes my bones ache just to think about it.
I watched the other nine buildings be executed, right in front of me. But in a last-minute twist of fate, I was spared. Word got out that Dwight and Mamie Eisenhower had spent their honeymoon in me, and the local historians couldn’t stand the thought of losing a little piece of the past. It’s true- they were here. They say walls have ears, and we do. Eyes too. We have mouths, but there’s an unspoken agreement between us and those with arms and legs. You build us, we keep your secrets. It’s worked pretty well- never been broken as far as I know. So I can’t tell you exactly what went on with Dwight and Mamie but let me just say it was one of the sweetest exchanges that ever took place in that tiny back bedroom.
I’ve had a good life. Only four owners in all these years, and I do believe they each loved me in their own way. I’ve held them all as best I could- the summer vacationers with all those loud little children, the loving spouses and the fighting spouses, the scratching cats and the piddling dogs and the gracious guests. I’ve had a front row seat for all the things that go on behind closed doors, and I’ve learned that there are people who tromp hard in their boots and slap the walls to make a point, and there are people who glide smoothly through a space like swans in still water. But I’ve watched long enough to see that everyone laughs, everyone cries, and underneath it all, everyone just wants to be happy.
This last one has been my favorite, though. Thirty one years she’s been walking nice and gentle across my wooden floors. She’s the one that fell in love with me. Thanks to her I finally got a layer of insulation to get me through the winters, forced air heating to warm my belly when the woodstove went out, even plumbing. And eleven skylights! It was like seeing God when that light shone through for the first time. And then she got serious with somebody and there were two of them, and two cats that scan the neighborhood from my roof. Even better.
But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that nothing lasts forever. People, buildings, cats- nothing. What gets me is that they talk about it all the time, out loud, right there in my living room, surrounded by the knotty pine paneling that is as rich and warm as the day I was built. They talk about how they’re going to take me apart, piece by piece, starting with the roof and working their way down the walls until there is nothing left here but a big gaping hole in the ground. I don’t know if they notice the slight trembling that overtakes me when they talk like this. I guess I’ve outlived the odds so long that I was starting to think that I would escape that ultimate fate- that in spite of my lack of foundation and unpractical design, they would let me gradually decay into a natural death. I cringe and creak when they talk about prying boards from the walls and knocking down my chimney. The first one’s pretty good with tools, but the second one- she can’t even drill a screw straight. The thought of her coming at me with a crowbar in hand is enough to make me want to light a match right now. Sometimes I wish they would have the decency to take that kind of talk outside.
When I steady myself and listen carefully, though, I realize that they have spared me the instantaneous demolition of the wrecking ball so they can re-use my parts. Better to go out in one blaze of glory than months of agonizing pecking and picking, I think, but I appreciate the consideration. And I can’t even count the number of nights I’ve stayed up into the wee hours with her at the computer, evolving a design that looks a little bit like me. Once she finally goes to bed I console myself with the thought that my two-by-fours will live on, that my wall boards will become subflooring, and my beautiful knotty pine will be transformed into kitchen cabinets. As I settle down for the night I remember to count my blessings, to have the rare privilege of being ushered into the next life with respect and love. I just wish they could tell me one thing. Is it going to hurt? (written 6/16/08)
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