You’ve probably heard the old joke about aging. (Pay attention to the punctuation.) “When you are 40, it’s Patch. Patch. Patch. When you are 60, it’s Patch, Patch, Patch, Patch. When you reach the venerable age of 80, it’s PatchPatchPatchPatchPatch.” Well, it’s as true for houses in this neck of the woods as it is for people – maybe more so.
Of course, I don’t really have a straight-across comparison between our house and any living person. The house was built in 1869, the same year that Mahatma Gandhi and Henri Matisse were born. Gandhi lived until 1948 – 79 years; Matisse until 1954 – 85 years. Not too shabby for either of them, but certainly not the age of our house.
Or, for a closer comparison, I could look at the building materials in addition to the age. Granted, redwood lumber (brought north on an oyster schooner) versus flesh and blood is definitely an apples and oranges sort of deal. But, it is telling that some living redwood trees are 2,000 years old and more. That’s definitely ‘flesh’ of a different sort and the statistics bode well for our house – to a point.
I’ve been reflecting on all of this because it’s looking like a new coat of paint is in order. I’m not sure when we painted last (and by “we” I do not mean us, personally.) It’s been at least ten years, maybe closer to twice that. We had one side painted a year in the interest of our budget and I’m sure that will be the way of it this time, too. It’s a big project.
Plus, there’s always the scary possibility that the painter will run across a rotten board or some other dire contingency. In her dotage, my mother worried that the little marble fireplace in the erstwhile parlor was sinking into oblivion. More than once she had the Mack brothers or Bob Bredfield crawl under the house to reassure her. And… speaking of fireplaces, what about that fern growing out of our east chimney?
As I say – PatchPatchPatchPatchPatch!