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These Walls Can Talk

By @astrid_hartman

Reigning Patron

I am a model home, the first built in my neighborhood if you must know. A lady never likes to tell her age so I won’t either; if I did, then you’ll probably think that because of my age that I have bats in my attic or mice in my basement (which I certainly do not!). So I will just leave you with the beginning fact that I am the reigning patron of my street, Hartford Ave.

I was previously owned by a woman who ran a daycare. Let me tell you, I was almost too glad that she decided to sell me. The children that she took care of would run their sticky fingers along my walls. The poor dears are still having nightmares about it. And don’t even get me started on what color they painted my bathroom. Who on earth wants a rainbow splotched bathroom?!

Thankfully, when the Jefferson family purchased me, they painted over that dreadful bathroom. But that pheasant wallpaper, it was too costly to replace. And please, deary, I cannot even begin to talk about the green carpeting in the basement. Green. Carpeting. So yes, the Jefferson’s fixed me in many ways but in other areas; things stayed very much the same.

They have owned me for several years now. The Mr. and Mrs. were just newlyweds at the time when they purchased me and were unprepared for that winter in ’95. I was as unprepared as they were. My attic has still not recovered though I dare say the Jefferson’s have tried so hard to fix me. 

First, there was the sink in the kitchen that kept on leaking. Then, the air conditioner breathed its last. Next, my ceiling in the living room began to crack because I was settling. Let me put it daintily that Mr. Jefferson was not very happy with me. 

“This house is so old, the walls are even cracking and soon there will be a hole in the ceiling.” Mr. Jefferson fumed. 

But Mrs. Jefferson, bless her soul, was very understanding. “The house is just settling, dear, it can’t help it.” She warms me to my very foundation, that dear woman does. 

 But then, the very worst thing the Jefferson’s could have ever done happened.

Mrs. Jefferson decided to get a dog. 

A. Dog. 

The very nemesis of a house is a pet. Dog, cat, cockatoo, gerbil, whatever the case may be, they are all dreadful. 

To spare you the horrendous and nightmare inducing description of what that dog did to my poor living room carpet, let me just say that many parts of the grey carpet will never be grey again. However, over the course of time, I have found it in my walls and bricks to forgive Mrs. Jefferson for her heinous crime against househood. And, in time, the dog and I made peace as well. 

I can now proudly say that I am most content with my people and their animal. 

Wait, Boomer, why are you lifting up your leg? Boomer, Boomer don’t you dare! Boomer, Boomer–noooo!

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