Wished our stay Could've been longer A STORY WORTH TELLING
“Old houses, I thought, do not belong to people ever, not really, people belong to them.”
— Gladys Taber
I always wanted to live in an old Victorianstyle house. Then I bought one –– a tall, elegant structure built in 1900 and towering over the newer homes around it. After settling in, we relaxed one evening watching “The Money Pit,” a 1986 movie. The plot centers around a couple who buys an elegant old country estate. It was bliss until doors fell off hinges, staircases tumbled and a bathtub fell through the floor.
While the house I bought thankfully wasn’t that bad, it did come with its own set of surprises including squirrels in the attic … and an unseen occupant.
When it came to the squirrels, “No problem.” I thought. “I’m smarter than fuzzytailed rats.”
I spent a Saturday repairing rooflines and tree trimming, then declared it done save for checking repaired spots inside the attic.
Access to that cavernous space required climbing through a closet hatch and traversing a long 4-foot crawl space. Once there, I found myself eye to eye with one remaining squirrel.
“OK,” I muttered. I needed to reopen the nearest hole and shoo him out. The squirrel had other ideas and made evil hissing noises and assumed attack stances.
After careful dancing on both our parts, I succeeded in my plan and the squirrel succeeded in his escape.
I had almost recovered from the squirrel soiree when I was introduced to another co-occupant, this one a little harder to classify. It started with minor distractions such as the nightly sounds of someone walking in the attic and a “possessed” bedroom light.
I blamed the happenings on “George,” a nickname I assigned to the unseen inhabitant just to give him some personality.
I concluded George occupied one large bedroom adjoining a dressing room and bath. I accused him of seeking attention with the overhead light by randomly turning it on. Switchingitoff worked, but it would come on again at the least expected time.
Fearing faulty wiring, an electrician was summoned. Nothing was found. The phenomenon continued. I learned to just ignore it.
Less easy to dismiss were things like the quiet early morning I caught sight of a kid’s football slowly rolling along the floor, through the door between the rooms and stopping at my feet.
OK, so what made it fall off an undisturbed shelf? A football that neither rolls easily nor straight, navigating perfectly across a large bedroom floor, through a door and stopping at my feet?
I nervously laughed.
“George, I don’t have time to play ball. I have to go to work,” I said.
Another morning, I laid a washcloth on the lavatory and left the bathroom, making a U-turn to open the closet. As I paused there, the washcloth flew out of the bathroom and landed on the floor near my feet.
Again, I was the only one awake. Allowing my heart rate to slow down, I looked around and said, “George, you gotta cut this out, man. If you have something to say, just write it on the wall and I’ll get back to you.”
Similar small oddities continued over time, without explanation, to which I became accustomed while vocally blaming George and assuming he heard me.
We sold the old house a couple of years later.
I never watched “The Money Pit” again, but I’ve often wished our stay in that Victorian house could’ve been longer. Pending George’s approval… of course.
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