There is something undeniably tragic about watching history get bulldozed while sipping your morning coffee. One day, you’re admiring a charming 1920s bungalow with its quaint shutters and hand-carved porch railings, and the next—it’s a pile of rubble, making way for something that looks like an Amazon warehouse with windows.
Now, don’t get me wrong—I’m all for progress. I’m not suggesting we all go back to washing our clothes on a rock by the river. But does every house really have to look like a stack of Ikea flat-packs glued together?
I live in one of those neighborhoods where the homes used to have character. Stained glass windows. Detailed woodwork. The kind of charm that makes you wonder if a ghost might be hanging around for nostalgia’s sake. (And as someone who writes paranormal mysteries, you know I appreciate a good haunted house vibe.)
But lately, it's been attack of the boxy modern behemoths. You know the ones—flat roofs, the color of existential despair, and an exterior that screams, Welcome to the most expensive shipping container ever built! And then the realtor listing has the audacity to describe them as “luxury modern homes with a minimalist aesthetic.”
Minimalist? Oh, honey, you just forgot to add character.
And the worst part? We’ve somehow developed this weird belief that old = bad. Not classic, not vintage, just dated, and therefore, disposable. As if the passage of time immediately devalues everything.
Take my beloved 22-year-old convertible VW Beetle. She’s not flashy. She doesn’t have some AI-driven parking system that beeps at me every time I get within three feet of a bush. But she’s cute as hell. And unlike all these new cars that require a spaceship-level user manual just to start them, she turns on with a key. Yes, an actual key. Remember those? You put it in the ignition and—gasp—the car starts. No fingerprint scans. No touchscreen prompts asking you to update the software before you can drive to the store. Just a good old-fashioned key and a reliable engine.
That’s the thing about well-crafted, beautiful things. They last.
The same goes for books and paintings. Imagine if we treated literature the way we treat homes? “Oh, Shakespeare? Ew. So dated. That’s, like, so 1600s. Let’s bulldoze it and replace it with a tweet.”
Or art: “The Mona Lisa? That’s old. Let’s throw it out and replace it with a stock image of a motivational cat poster.”
See how ridiculous that sounds? But that’s exactly what we’re doing with architecture, furniture, and even our own sense of appreciation.
Look, I don’t want to bring back floral wallpaper. No one should have to suffer through that again. But can we at least acknowledge that craftsmanship, beauty, and history matter? That not everything old should be chucked into a dumpster to make way for a soulless geometric void?
Give me a house with creaky wooden floors. Give me a car that starts with a key. Give me a library of books that smell like history instead of an e-reader that runs out of battery right when I get to the best part.
Old isn’t bad. It’s just…experienced. And frankly, I’ll take a little experience over yet another overpriced, boxy monstrosity any day.
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