May 6, 1983
When Old is really Beautiful
The older I get, the older young is.
Guess we can all say that … remembering especially how old our parents were when we were kids and they were, say thirty-five or some such ancient number.
Funny, those of us who have seen thirty-five come and go (or are on the sunny side of it … but just barely) think that thirty-five (or forty or fifty) is really very young.
My father is a young mid-seventies; some of my best friends are over sixty. To my children, I’m sure these people are near decrepit, but to me they are far from ready to throw in the towel.
People often become more beautiful (inside and out) the older they get. Sometimes, it’s because they’ve met and conquered the miseries of the world and have gained a serenity that comes from dealing with adversity. Sometimes it’s because they face less cares and woes than they had in their youth. Sometimes it’s a radiance that comes from having learned how to face life and find the best it has to offer.
Furniture often becomes more precious the older it gets.
I remember sharply the conversation I had with my mother about all of the old things she liked to collect. We were downstairs cleaning out the basement. I should say she was cleaning out the basement and I was fussing over all the “junk” she had saved.
“I hope you’re not going to leave me all this stuff someday,” I said sarcastically (as only a wise young know-it-all can).
Mom sighed and remarked that she’d better never die then, because she couldn’t bear to think of all this beauty being sold or going to waste because no one wanted it.
Beauty?
All I ever saw was old.
Old furniture. Old bottles. Old knick-knacks. Old pots and pans. Old needlework. Old dolls. Old pictures. Old, old, old.
At that stage in my life, I dreamed of the magazine-perfect plastic, glass and chrome that my home would look like. All modernistic paintings on the wall and nary a trace of anything old.
Fortunately for my mother (and definitely for me) my appreciation of age changed before it was time to find a home for my mother’s things. Now, I am proud to polish all those relics of former time that grace my home, keeping in mind that nothing like them will ever be made again.
Houses, too, have a certain character that often becomes more interesting with age.
This month, the Camden County Cultural and Heritage Commission will honor some local people for the work they’ve done to restore and preserve the beautiful houses we see in our travels around the county.
Next time you’re driving on Tansboro Road toward the Acme shopping center, take a gander at the old Wooster farm on your left, just after McDonald’s. The owners of that gem could easily have razed it and started again … to build a modern two-story Colonial with center hall and the other commonplace things we put in our houses these days.
Instead, the first thing that happened was the restoration of the turret room that was originally a part of the house. In the weeks that I’ve been watching the beautiful old home being carefully restored, it’s been like seeing something reborn. It’s almost like being able to witness the metamorphosis of a crumbling ruin into the image of its once glorious past.
In a way, it’ll be a shame to see it completed. The process will be over and the house will be someone’s home, not a project that we passersby can continually share.
In a time when it’s easier to tear something down than to preserve it, how wonderful that some people like the owners of that house, developers like Bob Scarborough, entrepreneurs like those who rescued Philadelphia’s Bourse and those who have decided to keep the old Lit Brothers building from destruction, are financially able and emotionally capable of deciding to preserve history.
But for them, our country would lose much of its heritage and we would be without a great deal of beauty.
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