The bank doesn’t own this house either. I’m just visiting. I’ve been visiting in this house since 1975. It’s a long visit, but it’s still just a visit. I took responsibility for the house from somebody who took responsibility for the house from somebody. I’m not sure when the original part of the house was built. Rooms were added on. There are peculiarities like two doors beside each other to the same room. And that duplication is repeated between the first and second floor. No matter how much I think about that, I can’t figure out why that happened. But it did.

I’ve changed things too. I’ve ripped out walls and floors and added a room on the south side to catch the winter sun. I’ve painted, varnished, sheet-rocked, wired, plumbed, and hidden notes in wall cavities that future owners may uncover. I’ve done my best to maintain and support the structure.

Through all of its previous histories the house endured. And it will endure beyond my living here as long as someone doesn’t come along and bulldoze it to build something the like better. I don’t own the house any more than I own the land that it is built on. Even the grand old houses that have been in families for generations, will eventually be occupied by someone else.

The Kirkjubøargarður in the Faroe Islands has been occupied by the same family since 1550, so maybe there are a few exceptions. Although my family loves this house, they lead their own lives. I love and respect this house. It has been good to me, but it is an object that I hope will be occupied by some other loving people in the future. After all, I’m just visiting.