The Russian Bear
We live in an old restaurant! In this restaurant we have a tavern! We have a bar with an old cage. We have a beehive oven and a huge walk in fireplace! Our plank wooden floors date back to 1790. Oh the tails they could tell. Outside is a large stone patio that was once a place of laughter, good food, dancing and bridge games. Our small, wavy glass windows once overlooked tables full of diners from the area. They even saw the likes of hollywood movie stars in the 30's and 40's!
In our home once dined a Russian Fascist leader who hid armaments in our barn and in the basement. Daily he ate here with one of the richest women in America. Daily he recruited young people to march in his army to take over communist Russian.
In our home was a merry Russian cook who prepared the most delicious meals. Her son, a merry young daredevil became one of the key Pilots in The Battle of the Bulge who saved Britain from German Occupancy at the beginning of WWII. A war hero was raised under our very roof. I think about that when I walk on the floors or sleep in the rooms where he must have slept. I think about him when I read the 1927 newspapers that lie on our floors for insulation. He must have placed them there. Or perhaps it was his father Lev who had to flee Russia because he had a price on his head placed there by Stalin.
The FBI once watched our home, looking for espionage. Watching the man who wanted so badly to free Russia from Communism that he supported Hitler taking over Russia.
This is our home, filled with mystery and intrigue. If the walls of this old house could talk, there would be much for it to say.
To me it is home. These are the walls that I've lovingly painted. These are the floors that I sweep, vacuum and wash. The floors that carry my family and visitors from room to room. These kitchens now prepare food for my guests and new laughter rings out loud on our patio.
In the barn where plays once happened, and food was once eaten, and weddings once occurred; in this barn will be new weddings, new music, new life.
Owning an old house isn't for the faint of heart. For the first week I walked around looking for ghosts, sleeping with the blanket over my head. But I found none - thank goodness! There's always work to be done.... a doorknob falls off in your hand or the plumber must be called. Oh the joys of restoring an old home! But I wouldn't trade any of it for anything in the world! Someday others will live here and wonder about what went on in the past, our present. Life moves forward, people come and go but the house lives on.