This house, my old house, is older than I realized.
Two months ago, an elderly woman pulled up while I was checking the mailbox and told me she had grown up in our house. She was in a big sedan and had driven up from Florida.
“I’m in town for a funeral,” she said.
She described the inside of the house to me, then told me it was built in 1947. I told her the real estate records showed it was built in 1958, but she waved me off.
“No, it was built in 1947,” she said.
Last week, I was riding around in a cow pasture on an ATV with a farmer who told me that my subdivision was the oldest in town, and that her father had named it in a contest held by the developer. The prize was a lot in the subdivision. The farmer turned around and sold it. He already had plenty of land.
I’m wondering who I’ll run into next that will tell me something about this house, which I guess is not so terribly old. Maybe it will be someone who can tell me how to repair cracking, plaster walls. That would be good.