A man built this house for his bride in 1903, and they had one child. At some point in the twenties, a film composer and his wife took over the property where they made home movies and the wife wore hats of a flapper. I believe during the war, it was a boarding house––it’s the only way to explain the deadbolts on each of the upstairs bedroom doors. Before the skittish women from whom I bought the house, five nuns lived here for years.
After I completed one tread, I slowly ran my hand over it to make certain no tacks remained, and scooted my butt down one more step to work on the next one. There were two or three tacks embedded so deeply that any attempt to remove them would damage the aged wood. I let them be. They worked hard all these years trampled by a thousand souls, and who am I to make them move?