I love old houses. I love their history and quirkiness. I love their traditional charm. There is just something about them.

If I had my choice, I’d buy an old – RESTORED – home out in the country. I specified RESTORED because I have neither the skill nor the patience to do it myself.

But my husband prefers newer houses and my daughter has always believed that any house over thirty years old had to be haunted. My son never expressed an opinion on the matter one way or the other.

So, needless to say, I haven’t lived in an old historic home since I got married and started a family.

But old houses are what poetry are made of!

The creaky melody of original hardwood floors,
The squeaky refrain of an old screen door,
I ache for nothing less and I want nothing more,
This is what Southern dream homes are made of.

That’s just part of a poem that I once wrote about a house I’ve never even lived in.

I love old wavy glass windows and original crown molding. I even love old appliances that have been retrofitted on the inside for modern use but still retain their antique aesthetic on the outside. And don’t even get me started on farm sinks and claw-footed tubs!

My love for old houses seems to be deepening with age. And then the other day I finally realized why. I mean it would just make sense that someone who is considered well into her middle age would want to convince others that they should more fully appreciate the older, the beautifully cared for, the historic.

In a society obsessed with youth and the newer, latest, greatest whatever, it’s hard to grow old gracefully. To find yourself still loved and admired for your aged beauty whether you are a house or a classic car or a person who fits into the 55 and up category.

But age gracefully is what I endeavor to do. Me and my hundred year old house … that I still don’t even live in yet.