My Dad / My House.

Two rooms of the house I live in came from the house my dad grew up in. And that, with a porch, was about all there was to that house. The rooms are now a spare bedroom (once my brother's and then mine) and the kitchen. They were, before they were moved here, a bedroom and living room/dining room, that had a fireplace where my sink is now. It was my understanding that the lumber to build that little house came from my dad's grandmother's old log house and that those 2 rooms are about 100 years old. And it shows.
Those 2 rooms were moved here in the 1950's when the government put in a railroad to supply the Sunny Point military depot, near South Port - the largest depot of it's kind on the east coast. The land was bought up and people, including my family, were forced to move.
The rafters had to be turned the opposite way to attach it to the house my dad was building. He told me he worked night shift and came home and worked on the house during the day. The construction is pretty odd. People did the best they could do back then (as I do now). And, he was in a hurry - his family needed a home.
My dad was born in that original bedroom - and died in the bedroom he built at the opposite end of the house. I was there, with him, as my sisters desperately tried CPR. I will never forget that night.
So, this house, my home, is haunted. Haunted by the spirits of many people - some dead, some still living. A lot has happened in this house. You can sense it. I don't mean to sound ominous - to the contrary - this house has lived. And lives on. It's my home. Lots of people have houses, few have homes.