Hollow husks of houses
And the delight of the new
I’ve just moved into a brand-new neighbourhood, and I don’t mean new to me. I mean, the whole place is new. I moved in less than a week after these rows of townhouses got their code of compliance. No one has ever lived in this house before. No one has had a picnic on the living room floor, no one else has opened the blinds in the morning and closed them at night. No one has showered in the bathroom or cooked on the stove or stood at the kitchen window tidying away the dishes in the last of the day’s sunlight.
When we moved in my son rolled around on the carpet in delight at its softness, its cleanness. It’s so easy to keep a place like this clean, when there’s no one else’s dirt underneath our own. No buildup of grime or dusty corners. Everything functions and nothing is old and needing repairs.
I’ve met some of my new neighbours already. I spoke to one about swapping carparks; another one has a puppy who likes to come and say hi to my dog. Half the houses are still empty and I have had moments of fantasising that several of my friends move in.
The empty houses are a little unnerving in the way of ghost towns. It’s like half the block is in spring and half is in winter. Those of us who are already here are setting up our homes—so fresh, so new—and then next to us are the hollow husks of houses, without even a history to hold. Real estate signs on the fences advertising their overpriced wares.
The truth is there are plenty of people who need these houses. But there are far fewer who can afford them. I’m lucky to be here, although I’m paying someone else’s mortgage—still—instead of my own. I had to massively tighten up the budget, and I work two jobs, but I can do it; I can pay for this lovely clean warm home for my son and I. But that’s a whole different topic.
Living in a new house isn’t something I’d ever imagined for myself, but I’m coming round to the benefits. I like the character of old homes. That’s one thing these new places don’t have. They’re all the same. Everything is flat and minimal, there are no carved bannisters or crown mouldings or stained-glass windows or weird nooks, or even any visible timber. But this isn’t a complaint about the lack of character of new builds. What I’m really interested in is the way this place feels like it’s on the brink of being a ghost town at the same time as feeling fresh and vibrant and comfortable.
When a place is this new it’s hard to imagine it ever being abandoned or run down, and yet I can’t help but think of how all of today’s ghost towns must have felt this new and permanent at one point. Entire towns full of houses built, and schools and post offices and shops set up. They’re so solid, buildings.
And yet, an industry closes down, the people move away, the weather beats upon the roofs and walls, and buildings crumble back into the land.
Who were the first people to leave? Who were the last? Did they ever think they’d be back? Did they miss it, or leave it behind without hesitation, ready to move to the next new thing? How long did people try to stay before they give up and abandon these places? Abandoned buildings are endlessly fascinating to me: they ask more questions than they answer.
I wonder how long it might take for this place to feel old, for the dust to settle in the corners, for the concrete to darken and weather, for the blinds to start to resist our pulls, for furniture to settle into the carpet. If the next people who live here after us will feel the weight of our history in this place once we leave, or if it will still feel like a clean slate of bare white walls.
Great post! Such good observations about new houses and old.
I too am fascinated with abandoned houses and settlements.