Last weekend Charlie had a sleepover birthday party at a friend's house. They have moved from St. Paul to south Minneapolis, and they gave Mike and I a tour of their new place.
Oh my. The house was built in 1951, and is a gem. I loved the light wood, the spiral staircase off the entry way (boy, could you make an entrance down those stairs). The kitchen is adorable, and still has it's original two Thermador ovens. The bathrooms have the great old pastel tile, and original sinks and fixtures that match. It has a beautiful screen porch in the back, and a cozy wood paneled den to store all of the books. The main family room has a beautiful stone fireplace, with rock covering most of a wall. The basement is a kid's paradise, lots of room to run and play on the linoleum tiled floors, and a built in bar for entertaining. (On this night it was stocked with pop and Doritos!)
Here are some stories about him, if you are interested:
He even had a tunnel built from his house to the house across the street, where he kept a girlfriend! (it is no longer functional...)
Oh, if those walls could talk. No traces remain of his life there, it isn't like there are bullet holes in the wall, he did all of his nasty business elsewhere. I had no idea such a horrible person lived in the cities.
If I had known I was in for such a visit, I would have brought my camera to document the tour. It was truly amazing.
So this morning as I drink my coffee and look at my crummy wood floors that really need a good redoing one of these days, I sigh and dream of big closets, a room just for books, and a big kitchen to cook in. And I may just have to drag out our deed and see what interesting stories I can find out about our little old house. Nothing quite so dramatic, I am sure!