Not too far from the side of the country roads, the old houses still stand.
A testament to the workmanship of centuries ago.
But neglected vines climb up the rain spout and work their way under the roof shingles, seemingly choking what were once no doubt spirited, lovely homes.
But there is still beauty in it.
The kind of beauty only something old can bring. I love old things. Their memories, struggles and joys remain with us. I suppose if you think of a house as little more than wood and nails, you might find this strange. But if you believe, as I do, that a house, especially one that has provided shelter for generations, takes on a life of it’s own, then you understand.
There are many houses not far from our cabin that have fallen victim to neglect. Each time I pass them it makes me sad and I secretly, albeit irrationally, hope that one day they will all magically be returned to their former beauty.
I came across this poem and knew I had to share it with you. It expresses my sentiments precisely.
The House with Nobody In It
Whenever 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.