This is the scene on any of a given number of streets near my house. It's par for the course any month to see at least one old house (usually 2 or 3) per street being torn down to put up a new, glamazon abode, with towering roofs, pot lights, granite countertops and fake grass (ok, that is only one house, and it looks ridiculous).
I'm a fan of the older home - the charm of slightly crooked doorways and oversized baseboards. The creak of the old hardwood floors that make it impossible to sneak around at night. The gorgeous stained glass windows and old wooden porches that let you sit and watch the world go by.
So when Baby A and I strolled by this place as they literally ripped it apart in front of our eyes, I was struck by the history that was being taken down - a house that has seen almost a 100 years of living has a lot of stories to tell. Births, deaths, joys, sorrow - all imprinted on the wallpaper and rubbed into the floor. Growth charts scribbled onto door frames and basement beams with secret messages carved in them.
I don't know whether a house has a soul or not, but something tugged at me as I watched another grand old maison get torn down that day. I'm sure the new house will be lovely - and I will envy their smooth drywall, gleaming hardwood and built in A/C. But I will enjoy my old house and the stories it tells me all the more.