(A larger view is available here.)
When I was thirteen, my parents moved us from tiny middle-of-nowhere Northford to what we considered the more "urban" Wallingford, into this gorgeous big old house. It sat on a side street right in the middle of downtown, a half-block from the library, police station, drugstore, and the firehouse where my grandfather worked for many years. The house was over 150 years old, drafty and creaky with twelve-foot ceilings and weird built-in cabinets and extra windows you could only see from the outside. There was a huge curving staircase in the foyer, and my L-shaped bedroom above the add-on kitchen used to be the servant's quarters. It was beautiful, and my parents did a lot to restore it to its full glory while still encouraging our family to enjoy just living in it. I sure did enjoy it.
We drove past during my trip there a couple weeks ago, and it was a little sad to see how it's become so shabby since my parents sold it several years ago. The new owners repainted some of the Victorian gingerbread trim with the wrong shades of pink and green, and let the trees and shrubs overtake the side yard. At least the cherry tree we planted was still there and in full bloom. (I'm not posting the shot of the left side of the house, where the ancient stone porch is visibly crumbling apart.)
It will always be beautiful and majestic to me.
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