Remnants of our Housing History
I love houses, the grand and the “good bones,” and I love their mysteries and idiosyncrasies. I really, truly love real estate.
When a journalist asked me for a zoom call to talk about historic features that pop up in Boston’s houses, I was thrilled...and that might come through in my quotes in the Address section of the Boston Globe this week, less staid than my usual responses to reporters. 😅 I love real estate, I love houses, and I love talking about them. This is as authentically me as you can get; if you’ve ever wondered what it’s like to tour a house with me, this is pretty much it.
I toured a prospective listing just before Christmas, a condo in a very classic three-decker in JP. The owner had pulled information for me about the HOA, the age of the systems, the recent updates; we ended up discussing the curved plaster walls and walk-through butler’s pantry at length. The original dumbwaiter in the back stairwell had be cleverly repurposed to house a stackable washer and dryer, by an owner predating this one. The wood windows, with original, wavy glass, were immaculate—yes, she confirmed, the HOA had paid to restore them throughout the building, years ago, rather than replacing with vinyl.
One of the most powerful (and sometimes overwhelming) realities about our housing stock in New England is that the buildings have outlived their previous owners, and they’ll most likely survive us, too. An old home won’t fall down around you all of a sudden—it doesn’t know that building standards have changed, that material technology has advanced—but it also won’t stay standing on its own. Every owner, every steward, has the property for a period of time, and choices will be made based on a series of conditions and constraints that might not be obvious to us, or to those who follow us. This is beautiful! Some mysteries can be solved with experience and knowledge, but some will persist. Surprises happen. Take comfort in knowing that any single choice you make short of full demolition won’t make or break the house forever, but make those choices knowing the ramifications might outlast you.
Historic details like those I discussed in the Globe are clues into the past of a property: who lived here, and how, and why? Seeing those features preserved especially well is always a treat, but even in disuse—like the remnant call tube we have in Roslindale, or the tell-tale, wall-mounted pencil sharpener left in a former basement workshop—they’re a clue to how past lives were lived.
Many choices in modern building and renovating are made from a focus on cost, or sustainability, or building standards and availability of skilled trades, and usually with a focus on resale. Plenty of houses were built that way a hundred years ago, too, but not as many lasted; the features and “charm” we’ve come to know and love in New England’s historic homes were built with a longer time horizon in mind, often intended to be family homes for generations. Everything was repairable (wood windows! radiators!) and neutralizing for resale was not primary. Details like carved paneling and stained glass were valued for their beauty and their longevity, not their ROI.
This is why I love old homes, in part. You don’t need to love them, too, but if you do, and if you want help understanding their mysteries and secrets, I would love to be a guide! Reply to this email, or share it with a friend.