Dad called me last week to tell me they were taking the old Spencer place down and asked me to come take a picture before they burned it. The Spencer house was one of the oldest houses around where I grew up, we think as early as Civil War time. Then it sat empty for a good sixty years in the field adjoining ours, so it was the main site of my first trespassing. I wasn’t a bad trespasser. I never wrote on the walls or damaged the place or left any indication I had been there. Mostly, I ratted around in the attic looking for interesting fragments from old Saturday Evening Post’s and wandered around looking out the windows like a ghost. It always felt, stepping into the house, that you might have just missed someone else stepping out.
I was glad to get to take Ada for a visit and to watch how she was just as enthralled with the place as I had been. Old houses like that have a kind of magic in them. When I think about all the abandoned houses I’ve known that are gone now, I wish I had photographs of them. I may have to take this on as a personal project, because as land prices rise, local farmers push to put every acre they have into production. As much as it bothers me, and it does, nostalgia doesn’t pay the property tax bill. Corn does.
















