Built in 1943, our house resides in a neighborhood that sits in the center of town with an abundance of huge old trees. Some of the floors are crooked, and a few closet doors don’t stay shut. The original hardwoods show the marks and stains of life lived here over the decades. I often wonder about the families who were here before us...I try to picture what it looked during the holidays 50 years ago. How many new babies were brought into this home? These musings make me feel like part of a story the house is telling. As we grow our little family, our time spent here is just one chapter in a volume of narratives lived out to this backdrop. I wouldn't trade the cracks and creaks or tiny bathrooms for anything in the world.