Those who know me well are aware that I LOVE old buildings, particularly those from the Victorian era. I just love the aesthetic of these buildings: the tall, narrow windows, lattice work, brick work, wrap around porches, etc. These buildings, particularly residences, evoke both romance and nostalgia. Any chance I can visit a Victorian house, I take it…as I did in my dreams a few nights ago.
I was running east down a narrow dirt road overshadowed by the lushest cottonwoods. It was the height of summer, gleaming green, cloudless sky. I was in a valley in the foothills, the valley floor a series of gradual rises and abrupt gullies. I passed by a modern house or two without a second glance, concentrating more on staying in the shade as much as I could. I could smell blossoms in the air. As I descended a gentle slope, I immediately took notice of the stately house just to the left of me: a two story brick home, the long, narrow windows and wraparound porch denoting it as Victorian. Right above the main entryway, a stone engraving proclaiming “1885” more than confirmed my suspicions. I was so in awe I came to a sudden halt, and just stared at the impressive building. The bricks themselves looked worn with time, but one could easily tell that the home had since been painstakingly restored to its original grandeur: someone actually lived there. A white picket fence surrounded the gardens circling the house, and I noted the cottonwoods on the property were by far the oldest I’d seen on my run so far. If I could just go inside, was my thought.
It was then that I noticed an elderly woman with salt and pepper hair looking at me through a modern screen door in the main doorway. I averted my gaze, feeling awkward and started to walk away when she opened the door.
“Hey there! C’mon in if you like. It’s mighty hot out there, and I’d be more than happy to give you a tour of my home,” she waved at me from the porch.
I looked down at myself: I was a sweaty mess, my shirt practically soaked, my hair plastered against my skull. As gross as I felt, I wasn’t going to pass up on her offer.
It’s weird how dreams cut from scene to scene, like a movie. Next thing I recall is I’m inside the house, and just speechless at how beautiful the interior is. I know the woman and I introduced ourselves, as we kept referring each other by name, but sadly I can’t remember what I called her by. I followed right behind her as she showed me the first floor, and immediately I was struck by how original everything was: the wood floors, wall paper, furnishings, etc. Only a few items and modern conveniences were evident. For example, the kitchen had a state of the art fridge and microwave, yet there was an old stovetop in the corner. The parlor was a beautiful room with wine red wallpaper and velvet drapes at the corners, with one reading lamp in the corner. The furniture was beautiful walnut and from the 1880s, the majority of the furnishings original as they had belonged to the first owner, a woman homesteader from the 1880s. The new owner showed me a collection of sepia photographs showing the first owner and her family in Victorian Sunday best: the husband in a fine dark suit with pocket watch, the wife in a high collared blouse, her extreme hourglass figure created by a corset. My gracious host explained that this family had run a cattle ranch here for many decades, but eventually the ranch was sold and some of the land developed (evidenced by the modern houses I’d passed by). The family moved on, and their beautiful home fell into an abandoned state.
As we toured the second floor—beautiful furniture in the three bedrooms, a stately office complete with oak desk and inkwell—she explained she’d come to own the house and most of its possessions. But as dreams go, I don’t remember the exact details of how/ when she came to own such an impressive, historic place. What I do vividly remember is how envious I was she lived in this house on such stunning property!
The next “scene” we’re back in the kitchen, and I’m babbling my gratitude for her letting me in her home, and commending her for keeping the house as close as possible to its original state. Gracious as ever, the woman presented me a loaf of homemade banana bread with almonds!
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The featured photo at the top of the page shows what best resembles what I saw in my dream. This particular Victorian home is the Mount Buninyong homestead in Australia, built in 1884, by the Scott family, who lived here raising cattle, and eventually sheep. Descendants of the Scott family still inhabit the property to this day. I know I have certainly seen buildings akin to this style here in the American West, but when I came across this photo via Pinterest, it looked so much what I saw in my dream, I honestly felt my body go cold. It felt like deja vu…And yet, the thing is, I’d never heard of this particular place before….
It is amazing just how much I immediately recalled everything upon waking from this dream. It’s so strange how certain dreams stay with you, while other mornings you know you dreamed of something but can’t remember a single detail. It is especially easy, and tempting, to want to pull meaning from dreams, to perform psychological analysis essentially…but all I will say that is that I loved this dream. It felt so real. It was a culmination of things I love: running, summer, old (Victorian) houses, history, banana bread. If I can “subscribe” to more dreams like this, sign me up!
~LMC
*Featured photo from http://vhd.heritagecouncil.vic.gov.au/places/67548