When I bought this 101-year-old house, I knew a few things to be true:
1) I was the third in a line of single women owners.
2) The house was made progressively more livable by the previous two women.
3) Yet my two most recent predecessors had found the home too overwhelming to manage alone.
So I decided to go at it alone. At 25 years old, I signed a piece of paper that has radically changed my entire life. I liked that the house was old but livable; that there was enough still to do for the house; that I could be part of the story of the house. I liked knowing I could care for this place and make it better. I wanted to make it better. I didn't want a perfect house.
Bit by bit I have added to the home. I've replaced the back door (mostly for safety reasons), painted the guest room, and added new blinds throughout. I've discovered that even the smallest project can have the largest reward. For instance, after two years of dripping, I paid a handyman $50 to replace a part in the faucet of my tub. It no longer drips and my hot/cold handles turn on and off much more smoothly. Within five minutes of the repair I saw how my quality of life had actually gone up. And I had to laugh at myself for waiting so long to do a fairly simple task.
This weekend I added to the story again by replacing my front door. A lot of cold air was coming in the warped storm door and through the very old wooden frame. The old door was a dingy brown and didn't quite match the charm of my farm house. Come summer I will be slapping on a fresh coat of poppy-orange paint to this beauty. The entry into my home will sing.
close your eyes & imagine it orange
I think the entryway into a home should articulate what you want those entering to feel and experience in your home. What exactly does an orange door, that keeps out the cold and holds in the warmth, say? I hope it properly welcomes those who choose to visit me, and those future visitors to whoever then lives in this old, blue house.