When we moved into our house nearly seventeen years ago, there were a few things that were not to our hearts' desires. The kitchen had to be redone, and we had fun doing that. Wonderful hardwood floors were covered with hideous shag carpet and the walls with metallic or -- gasp -- flocked wallpaper. We dealt with those things before we even moved in. After a couple of years, Himself built a wonderful deck off of the kitchen. A carpenter came and worked his magic on many of the closet doors, changing them from sliding to opening, with cute little opener-handles. We updated the powder room which had been minty green and brown. The real bathroom is on the list for some cosmetic work in the next year. One year my birthday present was spectacular wooden louvres for the living room windows.
The house was built in the 50s, back when houses were pretty much built to last. It's a good house. But some of its features were so fifties. The most prominent and visible of which was the front door. I've looked for a photo of it, but apparently don't have one. It had three windows, stair-step style. Neither of us liked it. But it was sturdy, it did the job, and replacing it seemed extravagant. Until my most recent birthday.
We didn't rush into anything. We waited, we considered, we shopped. But now, with another birthday looming in the not-too-distant future, I was invited to pick out any door I wanted with any hardware I wanted.
I cannot tell you how smitten I am with my new front door. I posted it on Facebook a little bit ago and my friend Pat immediately said, "So welcoming!" Yes! Yes! Exactly.