Page 32 of Passion and Privilege

“That’s your job?”

“It is,” I said, nodding. “It’s a job I love. I think this house is a masterpiece.”

“It’s just a house.”

“But this house has been preserved,” I said as we started back inside. “This house is almost untouched by time. That is unheard of. It’s a testament to the quality of craftmanship.”

“I’ve been to castles before,” she said as if it was the most normal thing in the world. “They’re old and they’re still standing.”

“You’re very lucky you got to see those,” I told her.

I started back upstairs. Surprisingly, she tagged along without protest. I pointed out some of the things I had done, trying to show her the beauty she was surrounded by and was clearly taking for granted.

“You really like this old stuff, huh?” she mused.

I smiled. “Yeah, there’s something special about preserving history. Each piece has its own story.”

Paisley’s eyes lingered on an antique chair we had just finished restoring. “But it’s so old.”

“It’s not that old,” I said, laughing. “I mean, over a hundred years, but there are older houses. Not typically here in the US but around the world. I would love to see some of those.”

She shrugged and looked away, seemingly unimpressed. “I still prefer new stuff,” she declared, crossing her arms over her chest.

“New isn’t always better,” I responded gently, my gaze sweeping over the aged wooden floor beneath us. “This floor has been walked on by countless people, and yet it’s still here. There’s a kind of resilience to that.”

“Yeah, I guess,” she said hesitantly, glancing at the floor before looking back at me with a new curiosity in her eyes. “But doesn’t it get boring? Doing the same thing over and over?”

“Restoring houses isn’t about doing the same thing all the time. Every house is different. Every house has a story. Look at this wallpaper. I like to think about the woman of the house sitting in this room admiring the wallpaper. Maybe she didn’t like it. I don’t know. There’s always a story.”

“It’s old,” Paisley said again. “And it’s falling off the walls.”

“It is,” I said with disappointment. “That’s why I’m going to be peeling it off. I can’t save it, unfortunately.”

“Huh,” she muttered, but she was still staring at the wallpaper.

“Do you want to help take it off? It can be kind of fun. You just pull it off. What doesn’t come off, I’ll scrape.”

I expected her to say no, but to my surprise, she nodded, agreeing to help.

“Sure,” she said. “Why not?”

I smiled, glad that Paisley was finally taking an interest. I handed her a pair of gloves and a scraping tool. She looked at it skeptically but put the gloves on anyway. I gestured to a section of the wall where the floral wallpaper was already peeling.

“Start there,” I instructed. “Try not to damage the wood underneath.”

Paisley nodded and approached the wall hesitantly. She gripped the scraper with determination, flaking off a piece of wallpaper. The old paper peeled away under her gentle hands, revealing the smooth wood beneath it.

As Paisley worked, I continued to watch her, a sense of satisfaction washing over me. This was how it began, the appreciation for an old house and history, one fragile layer of wallpaper at a time. I reached my own gloved hand out to another portion of the wall, joining her in the task. The soft scraping sound filled the room as we worked side by side, each movement revealing more of the ancient history that lay underneath.

“You can almost feel the history coming off with it,” I said, my voice hushed to match the quiet reverence in the room.

“I guess,” she muttered without stopping her work.

I showed her the new wallpaper we intended to put up, a pattern reminiscent of the original but fresher. Paisley eyed it with a nod of approval. “Not bad,” she remarked. “I guess if you like flowers.”

“You don’t?”

“I prefer paint. I like to paint,” she admitted.