I love an old house.
My Grandpa Pritchard had a favorite story about them. One day, he and his buddy—his partner in a house-flipping side hustle—were searching for their next project with no luck.
As the story goes, his friend complained that “It’s getting harder and harder to find old houses.”
My grandpa replied with the punchline, “That’s cause they don’t make them anymore.”
The day before I bought my house, a foreclosed bungalow, I got Grandpa’s advice. He asked me everything I knew about the structure and talked me through the ins and outs of the auction.
After the purchase, he dropped off a Handyman book of one hundred home improvements.
I’m not a person with a lot of “favorites.” I don’t have a favorite color, food, or decorative style. I’m not loyal to a particular era or build type.
But what I do feel strongly is that, when it comes to houses, old is better than new. There’s something about a house with some history—like Grandpa’s, or mine, or the kelly green ranch two miles from where I sit.
I appreciate a new build for what it is. Here in Central Florida, I drive past a fresh allotment every day. In the short time I’ve lived here, massive machines scraped the ground, burned brush, and pushed dirt. My neighbor and I speculated what would arise from that field.
The picturesque homes in their shades of tan and gray are nice, genuinely. From the outside, I might be tempted by any one of them. But picture myself living inside and the feeling fades. I see paper thin walls, masked in muted tones and textures to give the unearned appearance of age. I feel the low-grade anxiety of dropping a crumb or scuffing a corner. It all makes me claustrophobic.
But on the same daily commute is the kelly green ranch. It’s practically next-door neighbors with the allotment; though, in metaphoric fashion, they’re divided by a bridge and on opposite sides of the road.
The wooden house is painted green almost to match its surroundings—not like a schoolboy diminishes parts of himself to fit into a new group, but like a married couple whose smiles begin to resemble each other. Both the house and the thick forest behind it are clearly visible, and each amplifies the other.
Out the front door (or off the front porch), the view is of a farm full of animals and a beautiful lake. Pink skies reflect into the water every evening at sundown. The full scene belongs in a frame.
Don’t be fooled by my depiction; the house I’m describing is no mansion. It may be worth no more than my little bungalow in Ohio, based on my daily drive-by. And the footprint is likely smaller than the new gray homes. But on that half acre sits a little piece of paradise.
There’s a term for what I’m talking about, that invisible allure to a place that’s hard to put on paper. We call it character.
Character is not just age. Every old house isn’t beautiful. Character does not mean wear, but it does mean worn in. It’s these things, yet something more.
When we consider it in these terms, I’m struck by how differently we define character in people.
I’m describing character as an attribute of beauty, depth, and history.
Describing humans, we think of it as moralism. Don’t lie, don’t cheat, and don’t steal.
See how different those two meanings are?
I get it. We don’t want to lecture people on how to live their lives. After all, we’re not perfect either.
And we especially don’t want to be lectured on what we can and can’t do.
We want other people to have it, but that mostly means we want them to stay out of our way. We wouldn’t want anyone intersecting with our weak points—a cop writing a ticket, or a teacher grading a poor effort. That’s not the type of character we want.
Increasingly, we avoid the conversation. And I think that’s a shame, because our world needs more people with character. But insofar as “character” means avoiding a list of sins (or the ones that get in my way), I understand the aversion.
My grandpa was right: They don’t build old houses.
In the same way, people don’t emerge at eighteen having deeply formed characteristics and qualities.
What gives a house character? It’s the life lived. It’s the grooves and the scratches—the wood and brick that have stood through lifetimes and still stand.
Builders follow plans that make a house livable. These are the rules, “Don’t lie, don’t steal.” But this is only where character begins. Decades will pass while the true personality emerges. Floors collect markings, and families collect stories.
We hold a societal conviction: Only I can define me. I don’t have to be who anyone else says I am.
I agree, though I’d alter it slightly. Only I can choose what defines me.
Because the marks and stories we gather along the way produce the very depth we seek. Perhaps growing in character means recognizing the factors and experiences that seek to mold you, then selecting which you allow to succeed. Sure, some get tossed like a leaky pipe. We remodel and renovate. But if we do it right, we enhance the history, not cover it.
My Grandpa Pritchard left many good memories when he passed. The Handyman hardcover sits tall on my bookshelf. I laugh thinking of his stories and hijinks. He was the type to tease everyone around; guess that’s where I get it. I certainly got my appearance from him.
Everyone loves their grandparents (if they’re blessed enough to be close). What I’d never quite realized was the world of others who loved mine.
In the few days after his passing, it slowly appeared to me. By the time his funeral came around, long lines waited to pay their respects. In the middle of a pandemic, some having traveled many miles, people told story after story of a man, a cousin, an usher at church, a friend who had made a difference in their life.
The stories they told were their marks from him. The stories he told were his.