I treasure old dwellings. The hugeness of it all. The vast rooms, the architecture, the high ceilings, the wallpaper, the exquisite staircases that I envision siding down. I daydream of the old residences I have visited or lived in.

I would feel so blessed to purchase an older home if ever affordable.

I am not familiar with the ‘styles,’ yet I love the history. I picture the families that lived there, their stories, the births and deaths. It depresses me to destroy older homes to make way for newer construction. I comprehend why this would be practical, yet it is sad to witness a piece of the past vanish.

As a youth, I delivered newspapers to this gorgeous historical structure around where I lived. I was requested to lay the paper at the front desk inside the building and not leave it outside. I would dawdle to sense the heart of the building. The woodwork was exquisite. I valued paper collection days as I was faithfully instructed to remain sitting in the waiting room as the receptionist retrieved the money and a receipt. I loved it when she sometimes invited me to tag along to the office down the hall; I recall the direction we walked and its beauty.

Stanfield House
Truro, Nova Scotia

I recollect watching several community buildings being demolished and feeling sad inside – almost like something or someone died – as the demolition overpowered all the creative work, care, and memories. Some homes I lived in as a child and an adult no longer stand, some schools I attended no longer exist. I recognize the sick, empty feeling as they crumbed to nothingness.

My parents rented apartments and houses during my girlhood, and I dream of them often. I wish the opportunity existed to drive by and look at the houses and spaces. Now, they are gone and in their space are commercial buildings or large apartment buildings.

Out with the old; in with the new.


This is the way of humans.

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