I love living in a bit of Bermudian history. Our home was built in the early 1900s and, whilst it is cool, it also comes with some extra, shall we say, character.
There’s a bit of skill and patience needed when you have such old bones in your humble abode. It’s a tightrope at times, but also worthwhile. Our home is quaint but, like most old treasures, it takes some gentle handling.
Our first foray into the joys of “old house living” was Day 1 or Moving Day.
Let me set the scene. First time homeowners, buoyant on the idea of walking through the doors of our new home with our furniture, the copious amount of stuff that makes up our world, and with the intrinsic knowledge that it was, for the first time, OUR new home. Signed, sealed, delivered… it’s ours.
We had several walkthroughs and took pictures, so we knew what to expect. Again, old home, old bones, old finishings. We also knew that, due to the longevity of the sticks and stones, we would
probably have a somewhat of a job doing cosmetic changes.
But we had a plan! We had volunteers to help tile, to help paint, to help do all the little bits and pieces that those rose-coloured glasses missed seeing before we had to, y’know, actually live there.
Volunteers that we chose to pay with beer and pizza, mind you, but volunteers nonetheless. Our first “party” in our new home was to be days of mucking in but, having a good circle of friends and family, doable. We called, they answered and off we set.
What we hadn’t planned for, when we unlocked the doors, on our first day, was the ceiling in the kitchen somehow disappearing. Okay, not so much disappearing but, more to the point, relocating to the kitchen floor. Yes, you read that right. Our kitchen ceiling fell down. You can probably imagine our faces. This is not how we expected our first look to be when swanning our way into our own little piece of paradise. This was not outlined in the volunteer contract either. I’m pretty sure that’s when my husband’s best friend started re-evaluating his life choices.
So, there we were, staring at the mess that was now our kitchen, and we did the most quintessentially
Bermudian thing that you can do. We called our village. And within the day, we had a friend of my dad’s that knew how to install ceilings and a friend of my brother’s who was willing to do a quick roof/leak fix and my electrician buddy to check on the ceiling lights and, well, we had a village. A village of people that were willing and able to come to our rescue. We had my other brother doing the general tiling and my mom doing the fancy tiling and my husband’s friends alternating between a sip of beer and a paintbrush. We had my girlfriends helping with doing the kids rooms whilst talking me off the ledge thing whilst making sure that my wine tumbler was sufficiently full. Was it done in an afternoon? No. Was it done faster than expected? Also no. Was our new home filled with the energy that we needed? Yes, yes and more than that, yes. Within hours we turned our new house into a home.
So, yes, buying and owning an old Bermuda house takes a dab of skill, a heap of patience, the ability and frame of mind to deal with the often small and sometimes big issues. But above all that, it takes a village.
It is no small task to take on the weight of history, or for my poor ceiling at the time, the weight of a downpour, but it was/is made easier when you have people who are willing to step up for you.
