Every now and then, I wake up out of a dead sleep and think, “Oh my gosh, what have I done?  I can’t paint a fine old house pink!” But then when I come back to consciousness I realize that I really, really like the color pink and when all is said and done, this house will look wonderful. The pink is very pale and now that 30% of the house is painted, it really does look wonderful.

Years ago, my dear friend Rebecca said, “Who says that red and pink don’t match? Who says that I can’t wear certain colors with other colors? And I realized that I’m old enough to decide what colors I do like, and what colors I don’t like and to decide what colors look good with what colors.”

Seems like a simple thing, but that little statement really made an impact.

Who said I can’t paint my 1925 Colonial Revival pink with black shutters? I am old enough to decide if I want a pink house, and I do! And every day, my old house looks better and better.

I think it’s smiling. 

Happy house

close-up of the attic windows, which were repaired

In the pink!

Tory the painter works on the back of the house

Old houses were built for another time and another way of life. And back in the day, the overwhelming majority of people died at home in their own beds. Next, they were sent off to the undertaker for embalming, and afterward, they went back “home” for the wake and the visitation.

In my own house, we learned that the owner’s first wife died soon after they moved into their “new” 1925-built home. The wake was held in the spacious living room, in front of the beautiful fireplace. This was not unusual for that time. Sometime in the early years of the 20th Century, wakes and visitation moved out of the home and into funeral parlors.

In the mid-1800s, many two-story homes were actually designed to accommodate the problem of moving a heavy coffin from the second floor (where the bedrooms were located) to the first floor.  Dignity in death is something the Victorians did very well. Because of this, the coffin was carried upstairs to the deceased, rather than the deceased being carried downstairs to the coffin. Logistically, this made things a little more difficult.

To accommodate this occasional need, the staircases in older houses were built with a coffin-width space between the railings on the staircase and the second-floor hallway.  Think of the staircase railing going up the stairs as point A, and the staircase railing on the landing as point B, and the staircase railing along the upper hallway as Point C.  Points A, B and C formed three of four sides of a rectangle (see picture below).

With ropes and a couple strong men, the coffin could easily be lowered over the railing and down to the first floor without trying to navigate the twists and turns and 24 steps of an old staircase.

I’ve included a picture of my own staircase until I can find a better picture of a real 19th Century house. My house has a “make-believe” niche that demonstrates the concept, but it is too narrow to be used for anything as wide as a coffin.  As soon as I can get into an older house, I’ll upload better pictures.

When I tour older houses, I love showing the homeowners this interesting feature of their intricate staircase balustrade. They’re always taken aback and always pleased to learn a little something more of their home’s history!

A view of my staircase from the first floor

The real estate agent must have thought I was off my rocker when she saw me lean my hand against the plaster wall in the empty house, close my eyes and concentrate. After a moment of silence, I opened my eyes and said, “This house has known sadness and pain, but predominantly, it’s a house that’s filled with many happy memories and good times and joy.”

The real estate agent’s eyes grew big and her brow furrowed. After looking at me askance for a moment, she turned her attention toward the hallways and said, “And what a beautiful staircase it has.”

“The listing says it was built in 1920,” I said to the real estate agent. “That’s not right. I’d say 1924 or maybe early ‘25.”

“Those listings are based on tax records and they’re pretty accurate,” she replied. “If it says 1920, it was 1920.”

I poked my husband and whispered, “That’s not right. It’s clearly 1924 or ‘25.”

When we toured the basement, I admired the oversized beams and massive piers. I reached up and stroked the beautiful knot-less lumber.

“It was an individual owner who built this house,” I said as my fingertips caressed the beams. “Someone who knew their lumber built this house. In fact, I’d venture to guess it was someone who was involved in a lumber business or maybe construction.”

Within 30 days, my husband and I were the happy owners of the 2,300-square foot, center-hallway Colonial Revival home. And I went right to work tracking down the home’s prior owners. With the help of one of my neighbors, I found Laura and her brother, Ed. The two siblings - fraternal twins - had been born in the house in 1949 and now lived in a nearby city. I invited them to come out to the house on a Sunday afternoon. In a few days, Ed and Laura were back at the front door of the house - my house - where they’d spent their childhood.

“My grandfather started building this house in 1924 and finished it in March 1925,” Laura told me. “He owned a local lumber yard in downtown Norfolk. When we were kids, he told us that he’d hand selected every piece of lumber that went into this house. He loved this house.”

I poked the hubby again and whispered, “See, I told you.”

We also learned that their grandfather had built the house for his wife. She was ill during the construction and he told her, “Just hang on, and I’ll build you a beautiful house.” His wife passed on a few months after they moved into the house. Her wake was held in the living room, in front of the large fireplace.

The grandfather - the home’s builder - died in the house in the 1960s, leaving the house to his son. Laura and Ed’s parents moved out of the neighborhood in the early 1970s. The house had remained in the same family from 1925 to 1971. In the 1990s, the grand old house was converted to a boarding house, and still has the scars to prove it.

Laura, Ed and I walked upstairs and they reveled in the tour of their family’s home. Tears came to Laura’s eyes as she stood in the hallway by the walnut staircase railing.

“This was such a good house for us to grow up in,” she told me as she brushed a tear from her cheek. “So many happy memories here.”

I turned to my husband and mouthed the words, “I told you so.”

Laura and Ed replicate a pose from the early 1950s

The house as seen in 1949