HERITAGE RESTORATION
A house that’s traveled farther than most people
This house never quit. Not once. Not in a hundred years. It was born in the 1920s — but not here. It started its life in St. Vital, back when the world was still shaking off a war and nobody had two nickels to rub together. Then, sometime in the 1940s, after the next war ended, somebody jacked it up, put it on wheels, and hauled it down a gravel road into what is now its home, a rural stretch of prairie and stubborn hope. That’s how it got here. Not built. Moved. Dragged across time and dirt and distance because someone believed it still had more to give. When it landed on this spot, it didn’t have a basement, so they cut a hole in the floor and climbed down into the dark to build one. No plumbing. Just a cistern, an outhouse, and a coal furnace that probably smoked more than it heated. The walls were fiberboard. The wiring was copper. Everything was simple, honest, and built to last. But that’s getting technical again and this house deserves more air than that. Let’s open a window, open them all. Because this place is surrounded by giants. Big bur oaks that are older than Treaty No. 1, trees that have watched every owner come and go, trees that know the wind better than any of us ever will. This house has stood under those branches for nearly a century, asking for nothing, complaining about nothing, just waiting for someone stubborn enough to carry it another hundred years.
That someone is me.
