Editor enjoys senior year in a 100-year-old home


There comes a time in a man’s life when his underwear has been touched by a stranger one too many times in the community laundry room and he and his housemates decide that, as up-and-coming seniors, living in a dorm is no longer for them. That man was me, and we now live in a house.
The house that we are renting is just about 100 years old. That’s pretty neat to think about. Families must have lived here through the Roaring ‘20s, the Great Depression and World War II.
Maybe previous tenants spun Elvis’ first record in the living room or invited the neighbors over to watch the moon landing. Now, we live in a world where the Pope has a Twitter account. Incredible.
Apparently this house has seen some wild parties since it started being leased to college students. At least that’s the word from a few friends who were reminded of previously repressed memories after a quick tour.
I guess the little toilet in the basement with the fuzzy, pink seat cover in particular has seen more than its fair share of disastrous nights. I mean, wow. If porcelain could talk.
We’ve been moved in for just about a month now and I’ve adjusted pretty well. There are a few quirks to the house though.
I’ve never lived with ceiling fans before, and now I’ve got this irrational fear of the creaky, wobbly one in my room falling on me. My housemates say it’s fine. Feel free to cite this in my obituary as one last posthumous “I told you so.”
I’ve also almost amputated my hands on several occasions when reaching over my head to take a shirt off. I’m playing around with the idea of tossing a cantaloupe or something up there to see what kind of power this thing really wields. I’m telling you, they’re dangerous.
The separate hot and cold knobs in the shower are another thing I’ve never lived with. Most mornings it’s like stepping into the flames of hell and I have to do a little dance so I can readjust them. Thank you, single-knob shower valve inventor. You’re work will never go unnoticed in my life again.
On the plus side, we’ve got a finished attic that makes for a pretty sweet den. I guess you could dub it a “man cave,” but that always sounded a little childish to me. Then again, we’re a little childish.
I’m sure there are a lot of people who have the impression that “guys’ night” is just a bunch of dudes chugging beer and lighting their farts on fire, but that will not always be the case around here. We’ve got an eight-person felt-top poker table in the attic, and if anyone would like to come over and gamble their money away to us, they can contact me.
Of course, part of me does miss being a part of the full campus-culture experience that comes along with being a resident. Nobody tells me to have a blessed day anymore. Many nights I do not feel like making my own dinner. It’s also a bit longer of a walk, which makes naps a little less practical.
But so far, it’s been pretty nice being an honorary Erieite. So here’s to all the “lasts” we’ll have this year as Gannon students in our old house, but new home.

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