Old and creaky but lovable — that’s my house

It comforts me that my old house will always be older than its owner, therefore making it the optimal aging companion. I try to give it some latitude when things get a little dicey. So what if the front door handle came off in my hand and the lock jammed as I headed out to get the mail?

Fortunately, the house has other doors. It might even be charming to live without using that door for a while. But I hadn’t taken into account how dependent I was on everything near the door, such as the coat closet, mirror and shelf where I kept a basket of masks, keys, sunglasses, water bottle and other stuff I used whenever I went out for a walk.

“It’s not your fault,” I told the door.” A little jamming of the joints is to be expected after all these years.”

Still, three days in, I was on the phone pleading with the locksmith to make my door functional again.

That wasn’t the only incident. I was sympathetic when the toilet top slipped off and smashed onto the tile floor, breaking into seemingly unending pieces.

“It’s not uncommon to have falls in your later years,” I told the toilet. “Hips that cannot be repaired have to be replaced.” I’m still searching for a suitable prosthesis.

And then there was last night. I was up late working on my computer. When it got chilly, I went to my bedroom closet to get my bathrobe. I opened the door and pulled the familiar string of the old house light fixture that is mounted to the ceiling. Something I have been doing every night for the 40-some years that I’ve lived here. Only this time the string came off in my hand.

Over the years, as bulbs were replaced on a regular basis, the string hung tight, bringing light into the darkness of my long, narrow closet with just a small tug.

“It’s OK,” I said to the string. “You just got strung out after all your years of hard work. You can retire now.” I’m pretty sure the string smiled at me.

We have an understanding, this old house and me.