When we first looked at this house we have purchased, this door intimidated me. It spoke of a multitude of families who have lived and loved behind the doors. It told a story of glass makers who created panes of glass still wavy, imperfect. The hardware, brass, aged, had me wondering if we could exist in a house like this.
I entered through the door on the right, slender, not today's standard size. We wouldn't be replacing this door with something from a big box home improvement store. Even the knobs, the locks, would require a trip to a dusty store in the recesses of the Vieux Carre or along Magazine Street.
We left the house with our emotions closely guarded. We liked it. The rooms upstairs would fit our family. The house possessed formal rooms as well as a sunken den that could house our children's daily, messy, toy-strews lives. The yard, fenced, allowed room for White Dragon. Yet, the price . . . more than we wanted to pay.
At the end of the weekend, this house had claimed second place on our list of top three. When another buyer contracted for the house one, we immediately made an offer for the one in the Garden District with the door of leaded glass.
When I walked through the door the day of the closing, the intimidation of earlier dissipated into the cool November air. With the rattle of a passing street car down St. Charles Avenue, I stepped into our home.