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My first house was built in 1865. So it was about 100 years old when I was born, and aged gracefully while I grew up. The deed became mine when in was in my mid-twenties. I always told people the place had been pre-owned. A lot.

We bought it in the fall of the year; the heat source was only wood. Two Vermont Castings iron stoves belted out a creaking, crackling song as hardwood became smoke, ember, and ash.

The wind whistling through the old window frames and loose panes as sparsley insulated walls gave those stoves all the oxygen they needed for a good burn. Strategic sitting was required to avoid a draft on your neck or your ankles; usually at the same time.

I was young, broke, dumb, and happy.

My lady-friend, later to be called Mrs. Cotton, was a scavenger of formerly well-loved furniture. She found a good used couch and chair; both were uncomfortable.

She was finishing her degree and stopped by from time to time to replenish the bare cupboards