Letting the House Speak

My First Restoration at Gettysburg

It started on a whim. My wife Chris was in the middle of her medical residency—long shifts, sleepless nights, and the weight of caring for others every hour of the day. One Saturday, she just needed a break. We’d both been to Gettysburg a number of times—drawn by the history, the quiet, the strange stillness that always hovers over that place—but never in our wildest dreams did we imagine we could live there.

That day, we ended up at the Gettysburg Diner, where the coffee and tea came fast and the quiet was just what she needed. On our way out, we grabbed one of those thick little real estate flyers—this was before smartphones and GPS—and in the back pages we saw something that stopped us cold: “Stone farmhouse on the battlefield. Needs work.”

That never happens. Not in Gettysburg. Not on the battlefield!

We jumped in the car and went looking. With no real directions, we wound our way to the far side of the field and found it: a crumbling, vine-covered stone house slouched in solitude. We couldn’t go inside. But we didn’t need to. Something about it felt right. Felt meant. So we did what no one should do: we bought it without stepping through the door.

When we did finally enter, we were greeted not by charm but by chaos. The kitchen sink drained through a hole in the wall. A rusted wood-burning stove squatted in the middle of the room like it was holding court. The basement wasn’t just dirt—it had an actual stream running through it. It was cold, damp, and smelled like something long forgotten. Friends came to see it and shook their heads. “This? Really?”

But then, as they stood in those worn old rooms with sunlight breaking through broken shutters, the same thing happened to them that happened to us: first horror… then hope.

One Room at a Time

That’s when we met Bill—a local contractor who knew old houses like people know old friends. We spilled out all our plans—demo this, expand that, rework everything. He just smiled and said, “No. One room at a time. Let the house speak.”

I didn’t understand it then. But I came to realize that when you truly restore a house, you bring back its soul. Not a replica. Not a modernized gloss. Its soul. And that takes time, and a keen ear.

But if you do so, you—and every other steward that’s ever touched it—leave a bit of your heart, too. And those two things blend together. That’s what gives a house its feel. Its warmth. Its karma.

So we started slowly. First the bedroom. I learned how to skim-coat plaster. How to make old floors shine again. How to listen to what age teaches, rather than try to cover it up. That imperfection is actually the opposite.  

That first room came alive in ways we couldn’t have imagined. Then, a year later, we tackled the living room—but not as planned. The house nudged us in another direction. And we followed.  We had grown to trust.

That’s how it went. A few months of work, then a break. Garden. Rest. Recharge. Then begin again. With every round, the house whispered something new. Over time, it gave us plumbing. Heat. Shelter. Joy. And—like every real home—some heartbreak too.

We celebrated the end of Chris’ residency there. We also experienced a miscarriage there. That house, like all old houses, collected the highs and lows. But it did what the best homes do: it filtered the pain and amplified the joy. It became a warm blanket on cold days. An umbrella in the rain. A place of restoration.

Leaving a Legacy

For many years, we were caretakers of that house. It was never our permanent residence. Just our refuge. Chris poured her soul into that place, and when she passed away about thirteen years ago, her fingerprints remained everywhere. The garden. The curtains. The paint colors. The lilacs she planted. The endless books on shelves.  

I couldn’t bear to let it go. I rented it as an Airbnb, had friends help care for it, and tried to keep its spirit alive while raising my son alone two hours away.

But eventually, after 30 years of stewardship, I knew it was time to say goodbye.

I sold it last year, to a military family who saw what we saw all those years ago. My son—now 22—joined me for one last trip. We walked the moss-covered paths. Smelled the roses she planted. Touched the stone walls she helped preserve. We took with us the few things we needed to remember her by. But we left most of it as she left it—it was perfect as it was. The new owners were grateful for that.

And so was I.

A Life of Listening

That house in Gettysburg changed me. It made me a restorer. It gave me purpose and peace. And it wasn’t the only house that drove me. Chris and I worked on houses in Reading and Lancaster too. The house in Reading is still with me after 19 years and still not done — another testament to the art of moving slow. 

Unfortunately, Chris left us (and this world) halfway through that restoration. But like Deryck Cooke finishing Mahler’s Tenth Symphony from fragments and sketches, I found my way forward. She had given me the outline. The heart. The intention. And how to listen.  

From there, I found my own voice. I added my own touches. I may have reached my own peak when I restored the old blacksmith shop for the Union Canal that was on the property. (The house itself was the lock keepers house.)

It had been a meth lab, but I turned it into a one-bedroom oasis. I challenged myself to use every salvage-yard treasure we’d ever collected. Dumpster finds. Resale pieces. Random oddities. I used them all. I listened. And the result? Eclectic. Imperfect. Magical.

Today, I continue this journey with my new wife—Karen, also a widow. She had never done this before. I gave her my only advice: Listen. The house talks. 

She looked at me curiously but gave it a try. To my delight, she could hear it too.  And, from there, she could bring the magic out.  She could find the house’s soul and respect it.  She could do exactly what restorers should do. And the houses responded.

We’ve since restored two houses in Ocean City, and we’re on our third. This one is a challenge. But we move slow. We listen. We respect the soul already there. And we leave a bit of ours behind.

A Steward’s Life

I’ve restored twelve homes in my lifetime. I don’t regret a moment. This has been a life of nurturing, of listening, of honoring what came before and gently shaping what comes next.  And I have had the privilege of always having a house whisperer by my side. 

Old homes don’t ask for speed. They ask for care. They ask to be heard. And when you give them that, they return the favor. They give you a place of peace.

They give you restoration.