The origin of my house goes way way back. Not because it’s a really old house, although by Anchorage standards it is, but because this is the house that my husband grew up in.
My in-laws bought the house during the summer of 1972, while my mother in law was 7 months pregnant with their first child, Chester. That child grew into a lovely, gentle, kind-hearted man who I am exceedingly pleased to call my husband. In 2007 when my in-laws decided to move to fairer climes, my husband bought the house from them, and I moved in not long after.
I love living in a house with history. Pictures of my in-laws bringing baby Chester home from the hospital take on a lot of meaning when we look at them alongside pictures of us bringing our newborn daughter home to the same house. The tree my in-laws planted during Chester’s first summer is taller than the house and has to be periodically trimmed back.
While I feel incredibly fortunate to live in such a house, I have to admit that moving in to and becoming part of such a long history is not without complications. You know how advice columnists always suggest moving into a new place with a spouse, instead of trying to merge one into the existing home of the other? So, yeah. When I moved into the house, Chester’s childhood room and his younger brother’s room were preserved in amber from their late 80s/early 90s teen years. The posters have come down, but I have to admit that I have not yet scraped off all remnants of the poster tape.
So. My hope is to do justice to the house, to its history and to the family that made a whole life here, but to also make it feel like it’s mine, ours.
I’m not a designer or a decorator, or heaven knows a photographer. I’m in this to learn, to have a great time with my best girl Katie, and to share inspiration as I make this sweet old red house my own.