Archaeology

Old homes are unpredictable. Sometimes that means that things break down. The plaster cracks, the windows need replaced and old gnarled tree roots wend their way into bothersome places. It means that we are pretty much running a hotel for mice; that strange smells emanate from the attic in the heat of July; that a cold wind is certain to flirt with the back of our necks when we sit on the couch in the living room.

Despite all of this, and more, we stay. Perhaps that is partly because of geography, because we are situated close to amenities, highways and the school that the kids love so much, they look at me mournfully any time the subject of moving houses comes up. And perhaps we stay because we just don't feel up to the task of packing five people's belongings into boxes. I do have a great aversion to the work associated with moving.

The truth is, we also stay because there is some pretty cool stuff. Like the nine foot ceilings. And the transom windows above all the bedroom doors. And the substantial original fir trim that has never been touched by a paintbrush. True, we have been renovating off and on for the past 12 years, but we don't touch the classic features. And we try to stay true to the history of the house, to not make changes that are completely out of character. Because this old house has character in spades.

Some nights, as I lie in the dark in my bed listening to the creak of its old bones, the weary sighs, I wish I could get up and offer it some scotch or a snifter of brandy in exchange for some stories. I would cuddle under my fleecy throw and revel in tales of babies welcomed, celebrations, the years of bountiful harvest, the times of struggle and loss.

Every so often we do get a glimpse of the past. On Christmas Eve the son of our neighbours rang our doorbell. These neighbours are in their 80's, married for 50 years and still going strong. My husband has been clearing their snow for the past few winters. Their son came over to thank him and, seeing that we had obviously renovated the back entrance, got to wondering about how the house has changed since he was a youngster living across the road.

"There used to be two old sisters who lived here," he said. "They had transom windows above the doors upstairs. Are those windows still there?"

We assured him that they were, even offering to give him a tour of the house. He politely declined, seeing that we were in the midst of dinner and not wanting to impose. We chatted a bit longer and he left. I hope we can chat again some time and learn more about what it was like to live around here 40 years ago.

Until then, we continue to make our own history, changing the house to keep pace with the life that we are living here. We started a new renovation last week in the basement, pulling up emerald carpeting, tearing down paneling, punching down stubborn concrete walls. Yesterday the workers brought me an old empty glass bottle of hair tonic they uncovered as they tore the plaster from the walls. Perhaps it was left there in error, but I like to think that someone placed it there on purpose knowing that, down the road, some future home owner would discover it and try to imagine a time where dandruff was treated with Canadian-made tonic in a sturdy glass bottle.

The workers are preparing to insulate the walls now and cover them with drywall. Last night we were sitting around trying to think of what item we could place in the walls for some future home owner to discover. We're having a tough time coming up with just the right item that is a authentic snapshot of life in 2009. Perhaps a section of today's newspaper? A beloved book? Polly Pocket shrapnel? A vase hand-painted by one of our children? We are having trouble coming to a consensus.

So I ask you, dear readers, what would your hidden shrine be? What would you place in my walls?

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Some Before Pictures:

The view down the stairs. This is where they found the hair tonic bottle.

The makeshift office. Scary and cold.

The shower in the bathroom. Where does one buy tile like this?

The spare bedroom. Carpet on carpet action.