I don’t know if it’s an archaeologist-thing or just a me-thing, but I adore old houses. For the last 10 years, we had the honor of owning a 1908 Foursquare on a prominent street in Chattanooga, Tennessee. It was built before electricity, so it had 50 windows in the main house and the carriage house. It was constructed of heart pine and was impervious to termites. The triple-layer brick facade literally saved my life when there was a shooting on our corner in 2023. And it was just plain pretty, with its giant moldings, pocket doors, brass fixtures, solid-wood everything, and large square spaces.

Friends often heard me call it my “lifetime project.” I spent 10 years removing the DIY lipstick applied by previous owners and attempting to restore the home’s original charm. We had to hire professionals for the big messes, such as the clawfoot tub whose feet didn’t fit and the back windows that lacked flashing and flooded our mudroom, but I personally spent years stripping away a dozen layers of paint and varnish from woodwork. I planned and cared for gardens that were beautiful and fragrant year-round, which I hope my neighbors enjoyed as they walked with their families down our street. I gave my shoulders to the effort (and had to have surgery!), and I had many more years of work to restore it to its former glory.

But on November 15, my husband was RIFed. When he walked back through the Craftsman door an hour after leaving that morning, I was recovering from a 5-week-long battle with pneumonia and preparing to fly to Boston the following week. The world stopped when he told me, “I didn’t make the cut.” We didn’t know there were going to be cuts, but we soon learned he was only the first of several that day who were marched out of the office.

Within hours, David had scheduled interviews. He had an offer the following Monday from a local company, which gave me peace of mind while I was at the Boston conference spending money we didn’t have, and after dozens of initial and repeat interviews, he had 10 offers in 4 states. I’ve always known my husband is talented at his work, but it was nice to see so many people clamoring to have him join their teams.

For many reasons, we decided he would accept a job in Nashville. We are both Middle Tennessee natives, so this would bring us closer to our parents and old friends. We had watched Nashville’s population explosion from afar, so we knew housing would be a challenge. Yes, the market was more expensive (if our Foursquare had been in Nashville, it would have cost triple what we sold it for), but we were not prepared for the low-quality inventory in our price range. 

Historic homes on the market for half a million dollars needed that much more in structural work—and that’s why homeowners aren’t buying them. As is happening in most major cities, it seems, developers and speculative builders are buying 1930s Craftsmans, knocking them down, and building 3 row homes on the lot.

We agonized over what to buy, and our time was pinched because the Chattanooga house had sold in 5 days. We knew we needed to prioritize location because Nashville’s transportation system is notoriously terrible. There are too many cars for the roadways, and mass transit has not been well developed. To be where we needed to live, we had to compromise on what we purchased. We settled on one of those row homes, thinking that a new house might make sense as we are both working and traveling more than ever.

The move hasn’t been a smooth one. The day our furniture arrived, we had a gas leak in the attic. Our basset hound was almost a “canary in a coal mine,” getting very sick from the carbon monoxide. There are a million smaller problems that we will be able to fix, but as we get unpacked (and my shoulder pain has returned with a vengeance), I realize that we don’t know how to live in this house. We’ve gone from square rooms with walls, pocket doors, and privacy to long, narrow, totally open spaces. 

Archaeology is about learning how people lived (not just finding fun, valuable objects). I’ve spent quality time in ancient kitchens and courtyards, and even a few days in a 3,500-year-old latrine trying to figure out what family and community life looked like in the past. Depending on the culture and the age, we often find stone and mudbrick houses and walls with square rooms. Living spaces such as dining and sleeping areas were separated from work areas such as kitchens and stables that would generate heat and smells. Houses were designed to fit the people who lived inside them because they were built by the people who would use them.

But in the modern world, it seems trends (and profits) influence design more than function. David and I (and our long-suffering real estate agent!) toured 51 houses in 4 days over 2 weekends. Often the listings featured nice finishes such as fancy tile, stone fireplaces, and maybe even refinished hardwood floors, but again and again, we would find that the houses were designed for vacationers, not families. Pretty kitchens might be nice for displaying take-out, but the layouts lacked storage, and appliance doors could not fully open into tiny pathways. So-called finished basements had furniture covering termite damage, and similarly “finished” attics boasted primary suites in which no one could stand up straight. Such quirks are fine for a weekend but not for a lifetime.

And so I have a new “lifetime project”: making this vacation house into a beloved home. We’ve already added a reclaimed heart pine mantel to the fireplace (because mantels are necessary for pushing heat into the room, and the heart pine reminds us of our old home). We are making new habits of immediately cleaning after cooking (because 5 days later, I can still smell Saturday’s maple bacon in the living room!), and we are considering changing our furniture to better fit the space.

I know one thing: the changes we make will be quality. If we ever sell this house, it will be better than it was when we bought it because it will have been fixed by a family who lived their daily lives here: who cooked in the kitchen, gardened in the backyard, and swung on the back deck with their grumpy old (sometimes smelly and hot) basset hound!