lovely bones

Sandwiched between living in San Francisco and Los Angeles, I had a brief sojourn in Boston. The house we owned, was built in the late 1800s and had turrets, coffered ceilings, a back stair case, third floor maid's quarters, a fire place in every bedroom... you get the idea. It was an elegant, proud, gentleman of a house nestled in an urban scape.

So happy to, once again, have a young family running through the hallways, his warmth held us, protected us and watched as we brought home a new baby and bade goodbye to an old dog. If he had a scent it would be of oil cloth, soap and sweet pipe tobacco. He was the John Gielguld of houses. I was in love and miss him so.

I've always lived in older homes. Before my Boston home, was a lovely old Edwardian in San Francisco. She was the old neglected, awkward spinster who had no idea how to dress or what colors to wear anymore. She wore a mullet of house paint: pink with teal trim on the front and yellow with brown trim on the back. It had been more than 40 years since a family had called her their home.

A survivor of 'the big quake', she had a quiet inner strength that I felt right away. I was the young friend that showed her the way. Took her shopping, to get her nails done, and all that good stuff. With a bit of sanding, polishing, paint and a tiny tweak of a face lift {kitchen} she exuded her inner beauty, proudly.

She was the one awake with me in the middle of night, labor in full grip, her floor boards squeaking as I paced. Later she would rattle her ancient windows at the fog as I sat up rocking my baby. That house became my dear friend during those early morning hours. We had found each other, because it was meant to be~I think for that, we were both grateful.

A friend of mine recently sent me a link to this beautiful blog {two straight lines} I've been sitting here scrolling through the photos of this woman's home all morning,

enlarging the images and drinking it all in. Such a treat to see, the beautiful bones of an old home. I can see from these images, that this is a home who has seen a lot of 'family'. She is a proud one, in her beauty. She's as beautiful stark naked, as she is beautifully adorned.

*sigh* I challenge you, give me a newly built house that can stand on its own and be almost more beautiful naked than dressed. I don't believe they exist. I wouldn't even need a dining table in here. I would happily sit on an old quilt to a candle lit meal.

people don't build houses with this sort of integrity and artistry anymore. And with this much love, detail and thought put into the building of a home, births the beginning of the soul of a house.

Below, is a shot of her neighbor's home.

Which you can't even see~for the trees.

Which is pretty damn dreamy.

{Do you know that there's 6 feet between my house and either neighbor's house? Imagine my envy right now. }

Heres' to the lovely bones of an older home and those of you fortunate enough to inhabit them.

I still go by my old houses whenever I'm in town. For a few years the San Francisco sister was hard for me to see, in the arms of another. But she looks to be well taken care of and loved. I always give her a mental wink and long warm hug each time I see her funny old face. I know that we'll always have that special bond.