I am rapidly approaching the age when I will be referred to as someone’s foremother in casual conversation. This morning, I helped prove my archaic bent by yelling through the phone at a recording. How droll. 

In girding my loins to wage a battle of communication with the cable company, I was woefully unprepared with the proper sequence of responses to the questions that would eventually lead to an understanding that my buffalo cat, Cricket, while cavorting behind the TV cabinet, had smashed a plastic housing that plugged into the wall rendering it useless, and me without television. I only needed a new part, but that was not among the choices. Restarting the modem would not put the pieces back together again. How would I survive?  

After I hung up, I hung my head in shame at my toddler-like behavior. I wondered if the recording could measure decibels on the other end and if that was what got me to a genuine humanoid. But how spoiled have we, yes, I said we, become that we’re so easily provoked? How far have we descended into undue privilege?

This year my home, Aunt Sophie, celebrates 125 years as a familial harbor — a haven of rest — a historical bastion. I christened her with the name because of a sweet connection with a friend’s husband, Lee Peachey, whose great aunt Sophie actually lived here once upon a time. They sent me a photo of her years ago standing and smiling amid some flowers. It appeared to have been taken around the 1940s. 

Auntie, the house, was built in 1900 at a time when there were no codes or requirements, but she was built strong to withstand storms and other assailants by the family who lived here. I discovered in a pamphlet written by former town historian Barbara Hegne that the original owner was one of the Childers family who served as the town blacksmith. That was before Eagle Point was even a town and definitely before any modern conveniences like plumbing or electricity. There was also no sign of phones (cell or otherwise), internet (what?), or streaming images (yikes) on a screen in our living rooms purely for pleasure, with time away from daily chores to enjoy it. 

Aunt Sophie entered a completely different world from the one we know and complain about. Life was about survival. Pleasures were simple and far between. It was the little things. Come to think of it, it still is.  

In 1900, if a woman had four children, odds were 50/50 she would lose one before the age of 5, that is if she survived childbirth. Life expectancy for white Americans was 48 years and just 33 for African-Americans, providing they didn’t make waves. Most teens didn’t attend school because they had to work in the factories and fields to help the family. If only Aunt Sophie could describe to me the scene of horse-drawn wagons driving by on dirt roads. She could remind us of how easy we have things today. I wonder if any of my trees were there to witness the new settlements crop up. Some are pretty tall.  

Since I’ve been here, she has survived fire (2004), flood (1997), and earthquake (1993). A few other families called Aunt Sophie home before me. We purchased the house from Helen Gustafson in May 1989. When Emily turned 2, we knew we needed to leave our home along the Rogue River in Trail for safety’s sake. She grew up here. I can envision her swinging and celebrating birthdays in the backyard.  

When we found her, Sophie was dressed 1960s style with an exterior of mustard yellow. Her interior blended green and orange patterns and multi-colored carpet. There was no source of heat for the upstairs so we installed baseboards. Emily slept in a crib briefly to help her acclimate. 

I’ve been comfortable here for 36 years this month. Each spring, the same floral aromas and offspring of original bird neighbors trigger early memories of promise and plans. 

Happy birthday, Aunt Sophie. May future families appreciate your history and all that you’ve endured — petty complaints included.

Peggy Dover is a freelance writer/author. Reach her at peggydover@gmail.com.