Former owners’ family visiting

I had the most amazing experience the other day.

In October, I bought an 1886 Queen Anne in my hometown because I missed my family and had had enough of big city life. Then, on Sunday, my aunt brought over the four granddaughters of the former owners (she's friends with them). They spent more than two hours walking through the house with me, telling stories about growing up here, and it was magical.

I’ve always lived in old houses, but I’d never had a connection to the people who lived in one before. Now I do, and the house will never feel the same.

Their grandparents lived here from 1947–1978, then one of their sons (uncle to the sisters) lived here until 1998, renting it out before selling in 2000. This is a family with deep emotional ties to the homes connected to their loved ones. When their father died, they kept his house for almost five years and would go there after church to make lunch, just to feel close to him.

My house is no different. A few weeks ago, one sister drove by, saw my big Christmas tree in the front window along with the icicle lights on the front porch, started crying, took a photo, and texted her sister: “Finally, someone lives in the house who loves it.” (She’s correct, btw.)

The house has been through a lot in the past 25 years—severe tornado damage that nearly led to demolition, renters (ugh), an owner with severely questionable taste, and a flipper (ugh).

After this weekend’s visit, so many quirks suddenly made sense. The angled ceiling under the coat closet? Their grandfather removed the servants’ stairs and that was the underside of the staircase. The sidewalk that disappears under the garage? It used to lead to their grandmother’s vegetable garden. The oddly shaped first-floor bathroom? A last-minute addition when she could no longer climb the stairs and turned a parlor into her bedroom.

They described the original flowery Victorian wallpaper that covered the walls—and even the ceilings. They told me where the furniture sat. One sister sewed her wedding dress and bridesmaids’ dresses in what’s now my living room. Their uncle played Christmas carols the accordion by the light of the Christmas tree and set of glass light-up deer in the front parlor. They bathed in a metal tub in the kitchen as kids. Their grandmother made donuts every morning, and the town’s police officers and factory workers would stop by for coffee and donuts, parking on the side lawn because there was no driveway and no curb.

They even brought me banana bread made from their grandmother’s recipe.

It was magical...nostalgic for them and informative for me. And now, I don’t just live in this house...I feel connected to it.