It is not often you think of a house having it's portrait painted. But houses speak to me, as do graveyards, and rocks settled in the bottom of a clear-running stream. If you look hard enough and long enough or if you are innately open to such opportunities, many houses have very distinct personalities. Whenever I pass an old house, particularly in the countryside, I always consider what kind of stories it could tell if it had a loud voice and how easy it would be to hear them. And some old houses do have a loud voice by means of a caring individual or group devoting time, research, and no doubt a great deal of money to make sure the stories are not lost. They are wonderful places to visit.
But the old houses that have lost their owners, that sit sadly in an overgrown meadow, that slump within a grove of old magnolia trees at the end of a weedy lane--those are the ones that call to me and whisper their stories into my ears and my imagination.
In my youth I went into old houses undeterred by weak floors or falling ceilings. In Kentucky, outside of Bowling Green (where I was a college student in the 70's), there was one such old house, built during the Civil War, in terrible neglect. It was an old beauty made of durable red brick but only part of the upper floor was intact and much of the ceiling caved in. But there was a cupola, on what was the third floor, and I wanted to see the countryside from that window. So myself and a couple of other students carefully picked our way up to that window. You could tell the house was truly loved at one time--there was evidence of good taste everywhere. The curved banister that lead to that upper window was still shiny and looked as though it was polished only moments before. The view from that third story window was brilliant. It was there I could hear the army camped in the fields next to the house. The men and horses, the rolling of the artillery, and smell the camp fires in the center of the laid out military style streets, were all as real as if I had looked out of that window a hundred and six years before. Today I would not be so headstrong and careless. I have a little more respect for private property and a great deal more respect for weak floors and caved in ceilings.
Years later I went back to that old house. A group of caring individuals had found the time, the money, and the inclination to save a beautiful anti-bellum mansion. And as the tour guide talked about the times before, during, and after the war, and about the families who had lived there, I already knew the stories. They were tales of children being born in upper story bedrooms--some surviving but many who filled the graveyard next to the house. Some stories were of the old ones departing this world and being "laid out" in the parlor. There were Easter egg hunts and Christmas dinners. There were many nights when storms were on the verge of taking life and limb. There were tragedies of lost children and blessed events such as weddings and christenings. It is difficult sometimes to imagine that so much happened in one specific space-- and now is so gone
My grandfather died in the house he was born in--a house his father built and died in. A house my father was born in--along with his six brothers and sisters. The house I spent so much time visiting. The house, yard, garden, and barns are all gone. I wanted to show my children their heritage but could not even find the location because of the new highway. Finally I recognized the power lines. The ones my grandfather sold the easement to back in the 1950's. I knew where the house and yard had been in relationship to those power lines.
So much family history, so many birthings and Easter egg hunts--so much everyday living--like it wasn't even there. My heart was broken.
Some stories are of people who had money--who exemplified their values by the possessions they cherished. Some of the stories are of immigrants who left their homelands for a chance at something better, and still others are stories of individuals who barely eked out a living on hard soil and even harder luck. I love all the stories...
Here is a photograph of a cabin from the hills of Missouri.
And here is my watercolor painting of the cabin.
Daniel Boone's home near Defiance Missouri is a great favorite of mine. Obviously one of those structures that has received a great deal of love and attention. This is a watercolor done for a lady who felt the same way I did.
And then here is an old one that is dying for want of a roof and someone to cut the overgrown foliage away from her joints and window sills. I have many, many photos of old houses I have taken over the years--maybe I will write down some of the whispers they have shared with me.
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