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Near the end of the film, George returns home, distressed and paranoid after a wrongful accusation. Staggering to his desk in the living room, he ponders his work space, covered with drafting paper and engineer drawings. Renovation plans and records of all the structural engineering needed to save the house, I imagine. But they’re more than that—those plans and drawings capture the struggle and hope that goes into building a life. Though George’s back is to the viewer, he radiates terror and anguish. Are life and hope slipping from his grasp? Then, in a fit of rage, he destroys his work space, hurling the plans to the ground. Yet, the house stands around him, solid as ever. In fact, it glows with Christmas tinsel dangling from a festive tree in the room. The house waits to hug him, to hold him. Yet he’s not ready to see that no matter what happens, he’s part of something bigger than his own success or failure—he worked with others to fix something that was broken. There is always hope in that. When George and Mary overcome his crisis, he races back to the warm and waiting house. There’s still work to be done. One of my favorite details is the broken newel post that frustrates George until this moment when we see him kissing it, elated that it’s still there for them to fix. And, of course, the unforgettable final scene showing community members flooding the house with joyful support. How many of them worked on that house, shared a meal, shared ideas, laughs and tears in that house? They come together not just for George, but for something they all were a part of—the manifestation of hope. When I was little, my parents bought a Victorian cottage that needed a lot of hope. They like to share that when my grandfather saw the house, he shook his head. An experienced carpenter, he rolled a marble along the floor and told them they had a serious problem. In the basement, they discovered that a main support beam had been cut away. They urgently erected lally columns to shore up the house. Structural support. The foundation of hope. That was one of the many surprises, remarkable projects, and efforts I witnessed growing up. I remember catching glimpses of my father’s drawings and ideas. And on any given weekend, I watched both of my parents working on projects with relatives, friends, neighbors, local contractors. So many folks working together to fix something and make it better. Despite all the work it needed, the house always had dignity. Treetops and church steeples ebb and flow beneath the house, built on a hillock, overlooking the village. Nearly every room offers a haunting view the house gazed upon for over a century. Even as an adult, I often nestled on the wide porch rail, leaning against a solid column and taking in the view. Perched on the rail, I felt as if the old house, with the bones of the past and the flesh of the present, was gazing out to the future as if to say— I will stand here for you and for those who come after you, but we will need to work together. And that’s the message I hear, loudly now, in my own beloved Victorian, among all the others in the village. These old structures, places of hope—full of people with different ideas and dreams and problems. I will stand here for you, and for those who come after you, but we will need to work together.
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