The house with somebody in it

I share a home with my wonderful husband just outside of town.  It is a 90 year old two story farm house, that while certainly not as dilapidated as the house pictured here, my house has character.  Since my husband and I moved into her eight years ago, I have slowly worked at remodeling her, from the 60's style of interior design she had, to a more age appropriate look.  My five year goal, now turned into maybe 10 years, was to change her look inside to fit the era in which she was born.  Most all the work inside I have done myself, with a little help from my favorite handyman.

My husband talks of building a new home from time to time, but I resist.  I love my old home.  I think some of the tenderness I feel for the old girl stems from a poem that my mother introduced me to when I was young.  I even used that poem in a speech class of mine during middle school and college.  Not only does the poem remind me of my home, somewhat, it also reminds me of why I love my rural way of living.  I thought that I would share this poem with you.

The House With Nobody In It

By Joyce Kilmer

HENEVER I walk to Suffern along the Erie track

I go by a poor old farmhouse with its shingles broken and black.

I suppose I've passed it a hundred times, but I always stop for a minute

And look at the house, the tragic house, the house with nobody in it.

 

I never have seen a haunted house, but I hear there are such things;

That they hold the talk of spirits, their mirth and sorrowings.

I know this house isn't haunted, and I wish it were, I do;

For it wouldn't be so lonely if it had a ghost or two.

 

This house on the road to Suffern needs a dozen panes of glass,

And somebody ought to weed the walk and take a scythe to the grass.

It needs new paint and shingles, and the vines should be trimmed and tied;

But what it needs the most of all is some people living inside.

 

If I had a lot of money and all my debts were paid

I'd put a gang of men to work with brush and saw and spade.

I'd buy that place and fix it up the way it used to be

And I'd find some people who wanted a home and give it to them free.

 

Now, a new house standing empty, with staring window and door,

Looks idle, perhaps, and foolish, like a hat on its block in the store.

But there's nothing mournful about it; it cannot be sad and lone

For the lack of something within it that it has never known.

 

But a house that has done what a house should do, a house that has sheltered life,

That has put its loving wooden arms around a man and his wife,

A house that has echoed a baby's laugh and held up his stumbling feet,

Is the saddest sight, when it's left alone, that ever your eyes could meet.

 

So whenever I go to Suffern along the Erie track

I never go by the empty house without stopping and looking back,

Yet it hurts me to look at the crumbling roof and the shutters fallen apart,

For I can't help thinking the poor old house is a house with a broken heart.

Now my house isn't haunted, but it has held memories of families before me, and has welcomed memories that my family has made under her roof.  She has heard tears of grief and sadness with the loss of our son-in-law in Iraq, and the laughter of our grandchildren as they have raced through the house in play.  She has weathered lightening, wind and dogs and cats.  Creaky though she can be, she is proud and solid.  I am honored that she holds my family in her arms.