The Old House

Have you ever passed by a house that was broken down and dreary?

I’ve passed houses that are only skeletons of what they used to be. And I’ve thought about what once was.

The rooms inside offered protection for the family inside. The kitchen provided a place for a family to gather and fellowship over a fresh-cooked meal. The bedrooms sheltered children sleeping and the pre-bedtime stories told by parents.

A husband and wife loved each other within the confines of wood, nails, and plaster.

Hugs and kisses, laughing and crying, all within a house. A house that used to be a home.

Now sits in the weather and is invaded with decay.

A poem about that subject was written by one of my favorite poets. He lived near Mahwah, New Jersey, and would walk along the Erie Train Track to Suffern, New York. I’ll share another poem and story about him in the future. Meanwhile, my favorite poet, Joyce Kilmer wrote the following:

Whenever I walk to Suffern along the Erie track 
I go by a poor old farmhouse with its shingles broken and black. 
I suppose I’ve passed it a hundred times, but I always stop for a minute 
And look at the house, the tragic house, the house with nobody in it. 

I never have seen a haunted house, but I hear there are such things; 
That they hold the talk of spirits, their mirth and sorrowings. 
I know this house isn’t haunted, and I wish it were, I do; 
For it wouldn’t be so lonely if it had a ghost or two. 

This house on the road to Suffern needs a dozen panes of glass, 
And somebody ought to weed the walk and take a scythe to the grass. 
It needs new paint and shingles, and the vines should be trimmed and tied; 
But what it needs the most of all is some people living inside. 

If I had a lot of money and all my debts were paid 
I’d put a gang of men to work with brush and saw and spade. 
I’d buy that place and fix it up the way it used to be 
And I’d find some people who wanted a home and give it to them free. 

Now, a new house standing empty, with staring window and door, 
Looks idle, perhaps, and foolish, like a hat on its block in the store. 
But there’s nothing mournful about it; it cannot be sad and lone 
For the lack of something within it that it has never known. 

But a house that has done what a house should do, 
a house that has sheltered life, 
That has put its loving wooden arms around a man and his wife, 
A house that has echoed a baby’s laugh and held up his stumbling feet, 
Is the saddest sight, when it’s left alone, that ever your eyes could meet. 

So whenever I go to Suffern along the Erie track 
I never go by the empty house without stopping and looking back, 
Yet it hurts me to look at the crumbling roof and the shutters fallen apart, 
For I can’t help thinking the poor old house is a house with a broken heart.

to those who make a house a home,
– Caleb