Built in 1922, the oak floors and trim were laid down before there was a Great Depression; before Omaha Beach passed into history; before JFK; before Americans could find Vietnam on a map; and before there were red states or blue states. The deep front porch, covered with original terracotta tiles and shaded by a row of oaks, has endured with only a few small cracks. Every door still opens with its glass knob. And the rooms nearly drip with the strong smell of old wood and linseed oil.

I’ve never walked into a house with a realtor to see them stop short, just inside the door, and let out a slow whistle… “Holy shit,” he says, realizing that with only extraordinarily minor modifications, the house has remained nearly untouched by the changes of the last eight decades. The builder’s attention to detail and command of the art and science of his trade are clear. Here, he built a home to last.

I’m smitten with this home, as if it’s been quietly waiting, aging these eighty-four years, knowing I would come. It was spec built for me, generations too early, and if it’s in my power, this place, this old home, on its picture postcard street, will be mine.