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The perils of aging
Sep. 28th, 2012 10:36 amI've been living in this area for the past (nearly) 25 years and, as I walk and drive the local streets, I find pieces of my history disappearing. Of course, some of it was self inflicted, but I regularly see the landscape change and houses disappear overnight.
The first house I owned had a tiny kitchen, with no sink and the bathroom had a lime green bath and the walls were lemon coloured weatherboards. The bathroom door was a gate style, with boards and angled braces. It's the house where I joyfully prepared for my first baby, washing nappies in the wringer washing machine left by the previous tenant and hanging them out in the shade of the enormous apricot tree.
The washing machine lasted only 3 weeks of G's life when my dad gave me his old one. He installed the gas heater and storage hot water service the same day. That was a pretty good day.
The bathroom and kitchen were demolished to make way for the renovation folly, that we camped in unfinished until we bought another house and had to finish it so we could sell the place. With only the two front rooms left, there was no access to the story of all the other people who had lived there - how they cooked and washed and used the outside laundry anyway.
I consoled myself by knowing that the house next door had been built by the same builder and had the same original floor plan. The man who sold it to us was the son of the family who had owned both houses for 60 years. Our house had been rented to the same family for that time too. I think the two families were close, and then the last tenant died, so he sold our house to pay for the renovations to his. But all he did was removed the bath and install a shower and toilet and fix up the plaster, roof and electrics. He continued to live there as he had all his life and my story was still there.
He was/is a grumpy bugger who told us that he regretted selling us the house when we told him of our renovation plans (I guess he was mourning the loss of his history too). He also hated that we didn't look after the front garden. Maybe he also didn't think our children should have run up and down the street naked, although I think that was mostly my mother.
And now it's for sale. And within a year or two, that kitchen and bathroom will be gone. Which, honestly, is the right thing to do - they block the living room access to the north, but it's still sad. And it's another piece of evidence for my story that's gone.
The first house I owned had a tiny kitchen, with no sink and the bathroom had a lime green bath and the walls were lemon coloured weatherboards. The bathroom door was a gate style, with boards and angled braces. It's the house where I joyfully prepared for my first baby, washing nappies in the wringer washing machine left by the previous tenant and hanging them out in the shade of the enormous apricot tree.
The washing machine lasted only 3 weeks of G's life when my dad gave me his old one. He installed the gas heater and storage hot water service the same day. That was a pretty good day.
The bathroom and kitchen were demolished to make way for the renovation folly, that we camped in unfinished until we bought another house and had to finish it so we could sell the place. With only the two front rooms left, there was no access to the story of all the other people who had lived there - how they cooked and washed and used the outside laundry anyway.
I consoled myself by knowing that the house next door had been built by the same builder and had the same original floor plan. The man who sold it to us was the son of the family who had owned both houses for 60 years. Our house had been rented to the same family for that time too. I think the two families were close, and then the last tenant died, so he sold our house to pay for the renovations to his. But all he did was removed the bath and install a shower and toilet and fix up the plaster, roof and electrics. He continued to live there as he had all his life and my story was still there.
He was/is a grumpy bugger who told us that he regretted selling us the house when we told him of our renovation plans (I guess he was mourning the loss of his history too). He also hated that we didn't look after the front garden. Maybe he also didn't think our children should have run up and down the street naked, although I think that was mostly my mother.
And now it's for sale. And within a year or two, that kitchen and bathroom will be gone. Which, honestly, is the right thing to do - they block the living room access to the north, but it's still sad. And it's another piece of evidence for my story that's gone.
