My love for old houses in old neighborhoods grew from my childhood, when I lived in a new house in a new subdivision. Home for me was a 1969 split level, with all the touches that seemed so “modern and efficient” at the time--wood paneling, wall-to-wall carpeting, aluminum windows that never needed painting, and sliding glass doors that opened to a redwood deck. The homes in my neighborhood were filled with people just like us: Solidly middle-class, either Baptist or Methodist, with the house and its location just one of many ways its owners established a geographical, as well as psychological, distance from their childhoods—most of which were marked by poverty and deprivation. My father had a college education—he was an engineer—and this, along with the fact that he wore a tie to work, labeled us as somewhat affluent and a bit better off than my mother’s many brothers and sisters whose families lived in the old homes and neighborhoods of their childhood and made their living with their hands.
But it was the neighborhoods of my working class relatives that drew my attention and held my affection. My fondest childhood memories involved spending the night with my cousin, Jerrie, who lived in a modest, postwar cottage, in one of the many neighborhoods that surround Birmingham. The house sat on a small hill, overlooking a busy intersection. My mom served canned biscuits for breakfast; my aunt made homemade. Her house had hardwood floors, large, wooden windows encased by thick wood trim, and heavy wood doors with bronze hardware. The walls were plaster, the floor plan was a bit of a maze that tracked back upon itself. Instead of a back deck, the house had an expansive porch along the front of the house. The focus of the front porch was its porch swing. As two soon to be teenaged girls, Jerrie and I entertained ourselves for hours on that porch swing, singing along to songs on the radio, talking about the boys we liked, the girls we disliked, and choosing our “first” cars from the hundreds that stopped at the intersection. We both wanted Corvettes.
For years, I vicariously indulged my love for old houses by touring historic homes and buildings. As a historian, I could pass off the obsession as an occupational necessity—it helped my understanding of a historic era to see the way people lived years ago. And visiting Monticello is as critical to understanding the genius of Thomas Jefferson as reading the Declaration of Independence or Notes on Virginia. But, between you and me, I mentally rearranged the furniture in Monticello but never considered edits for the Declaration of Independence. I came to see, though, that trying to inhabit a historic house through visits that required a tour guide was akin to trying to experience parenthood by babysitting a friend’s children: There are experiences one must have directly. In August, 1997 my family became the proud owner of a 1929 brick bungalow in one of Huntsville’s downtown historic districts. Finally, I had my old house. An old house of my very own.
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