A House of Many Stories

 This piece tells a tale of our former residence in Plymouth, our home for 34 years until we moved to Fox Crossing at the end of 2019. I pieced together this mostly factual story from an old neighbor’s account. It was a good thing, though, that I renewed my State of Wisconsin Poetic License first.

Our house an old woman of secrets,

Hidden deep in the grain of her frame.

The creaks and groans of her old wood bones

Speak volumes of whence she came.   

Born of trees from the century before last,

It’s said she has led two lives.

For from these trees a home was built,

First a farm home for a man and his wife.

Then the Great Depression came along

And forced them off the farm.

The empty home didn’t languish long,

Before a lightning strike brought great harm.

Next a hobo came down the tracks

With holes in his hobnail boots.

Tired of living in tar paper shacks,

He determined to set down roots.

Our frowsy wooden girl winked at him,

With her window shade half-way down.

She invited him to come on in,

And have a look around.

Burned and beat in the fire’s heat,

She wasn’t looking her best.

But he looked past mere fancy schmance,

What he wanted was her undressed.

So he took to saving this old girl

With hammer and crowbar,

By taking her down to her stoney shoes

And recycling the boards, by gar.

Sawing and hammering on the site

So loud it was heard downtown.

Slowly appeared a memorable sight,

A new house rose from the ground.

She’s a reclaimed old house on the edge of town

For thirty years our home.

A tribute to one man’s recycling efforts,

Now memorialized in a poem.