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Abandoned House

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

 There is a house not far from here that I love to visit. It's not falling down just yet. It's still got its windows and, thank God, its roof. For as the roof goes, so does the house.

 Daylilies riot along its sides in June and July, and the Virginia creeper is going for the roof, something that wouldn't happen if there were any people around to pull it down.

There's something so touching about seeing the old-fashioned variegated hosta hanging in there, blooming even, along with the ferns and the forbs that are marching in from the adjoining woodland. The empty rooms invite nose prints on the window (mine).


It has the funniest little Uncle Sam outhouse, too, and a funky screen nailed to the outside of the breezeway window.

The prettiest Tradescantia (spiderwort) still blooms along its flank.
 People don't plant that much any more.  

Its barns and outbuildings have been neglected for much longer. The farming operation probably went long before the people who lived in the house did. The outbuildings lean and stagger along the edge of the woods, waiting to be overtaken.


 and the goldenrod says here I come, I'll grow right through your siding

 and the barn says all right, I can't stop you. But I'm not afraid of you. It's the vines that frighten me.


 The rain and wind wears the siding of another shed down to thin plinky marimba keys, and there is rhythmic beauty in their music.

 The sun dapples some nameless material that covers a hole on a little shed, tarpaper, maybe, and inside the shed to my great surprise is nothing but an artificial Christmas tree, still strung with lights

 and for some reason this moves me deeply; it makes the former inhabitants more real to me. Maybe they had gotten too old to handle a fresh-cut tree.

Another shed's siding flares out like a skirt saying Come on in possums and 'coons, there's shelter to be had.
 and the lichens grow on Ohio sandstone on the spring house, before the vines cover it completely. I will come back again, in another season, to see what nature has wrought here, and I know it will be beautiful.

I wish this house to stand forever, but it's knowing it won't that moves me the most.

13 comments:

A few zicks of the shutter and we are brought, once again, into your world. Long may it spin.

I just love your poetry!

Amazing to see nature reclaim her own. Here's to hoping she continues to reclaim her own in spite of those dummies who don't care.

Lovely. I so admire your knowledge and eye. Thank you again for adding so much to my life. ( Yes, you do! )

There is something so intriguing to me about a bit of rural decay. Nice post.

I'm getting all misty over some old shacks.
Dang.

Do people actually plant spiderwort?
It is everywhere here, and when I mow it, it cleverly blooms at 6 inches instead of the usual 16ish.

I am filled with questions when I see buildings like this. Like what they did, what it looked like in it's hay day? I would love to smoosh my nose on the windows and peek inside. My curiosity runs wild. Neat post!

It's always so sad to see a lovely home abandoned and forlorn. It makes me want to adopt it, clean out the gardens and live there happily ever after. Would that I could! The spring house reminds me so of the farm I grew up on in Pennsylvania... I miss it.

Delicious.

This reminds me of one of my favorite childhood books, "The Little House" by Virginia Lee Burton. When I see a place like this, I always start dreaming of restoration or, if need be, moving it out of harm's way. Historic Preservation is the ultimate conservation method. Reduce landfill waste, reuse historic buildings in new ways, recycle historic fabric. Oops, I will get off my soapbox now.

Julie, have you seen this yet? It's a "Living Bridge" and I think you would LOVE it!! The resourcefulness of people to work with nature to solve problems of their very survival ~

http://www.snotr.com/video/7331/The_Living_Bridge

Enjoy!
Jackie

A quite perfectly situated house. I'd love seeing a place like this.

I love old abandoned houses. They do something to me.

Sadly, my ridge has lost two of those beautiful clapboard babies, both of whose roofs were long gone but whose architectural details were still lovely and sound. Both were burned to the ground by an arson in the last two months. Just big red ARSON posters taped to trees where the white farm houses used to be...although I have been watching them decay for 30 years, their disappearance is a heartbreaking loss.
xxoom.

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