The House on the Block

Workers built me in 1920, setting each board and brick with care. A young family came through my front door, and we made a bargain without saying a word: they would look after me, and I would shelter them.

I held steady through the Depression, a world war, hard workdays, and noisy holiday dinners. The children grew up and came back with children of their own. Then the visits grew fewer, and one day a different family moved in.

I did my best for them, too. But a small leak went unfixed. Paint peeled. Bushes pressed against my walls and sent roots toward my foundation. I would have trimmed them myself if I could have reached the shears.

Now people look at me and ask whether to repair me or take me down. I’m tired, but I still have a story—and perhaps some good years left. Please look closely before you decide.

That is where land reuse begins: listening to what a place has been, seeing what it has become, and choosing how it can serve the neighborhood again.

—The House