Under the Sycamore:
Musings on Life and Home
The thing about old houses, especially an inn that dates to 1735, is that it has seen more holidays than most of us can imagine. As garland is hung over the fireplaces, and wreaths are hung on the windows and the door, the mind wanders to holidays this beautiful stone home has witnessed. We still place candles in the windows, though ours are battery powered. We still enjoy the warmth of a crackling fire, where knit stockings hang. We still sing carols as we trim the tree, we still hold to our hearts the homemade ornaments that seem more priceless as the years pass.
“Oh, tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy, Oh tidings of comfort and joy.” A carol written long ago and sung not only by the earliest colonists of America but to this day, “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” has a simple message: take a deep breath, relax, and enjoy the moments. Imagine singing this back in 1735 in this inn, as enjoying oneself meant tending to the fireplaces in the house to stave off the cold or ensuring the bread didn’t burn. Perhaps the early residents of this house would find comfort at the inn’s little tavern, much as our guests do today.
This house, like the carol, has endured. It’s weathered storms, wars, and not just referring to countless family dramas. It’s been filled with laughter, with tears, and at least one spirited argument over whether the tree is straight. (Spoiler: it’s not, and it’s beautiful anyway.)
And therein lies what is so beloved about old houses – they don’t try to be perfect. Their floors may pitch a little, and the stairs can creak a lot, but it doesn’t matter what is trending on social media. Decorating this place is less about glitter and colored lights, it’s about heart. A touch of greenery, a few wooden ornaments, and candles that flicker just enough to make Smokey the Bear nervous – it just all feels like the right kind of festive here. It doesn’t need flash to shine.
When our Airbnb guests arrive, they feel the magic too. There’s something awe inspiring about a place that has withstood almost three centuries. Maybe it’s the way the sunlight hits the old glass windows just right in the afternoon, or the way the floors seem to be part of the conversation. Maybe it’s the way the house smells faintly of pine and wood smoke, or simply the way this house with its history and imperfections, welcomes you just as you are.
We leave little touches for our guests that say, “Hey, this place gets it.” A handwritten note, a cozy blanket, a spot by the fire where you can sit and pretend to read a book while actually scrolling your phone. It’s about creating space for people to slow down, breathe, and let the holidays unfold, chaos and all. This house doesn’t demand perfection or grand gestures. Instead, it teaches us to appreciate the small, meaningful moments.
So, as I hum a tune from so long ago, and wrestle the garland that insists on shedding everywhere, I think about what this house has taught me. You don’t have to be perfect to be welcoming. The house continues to do what it does best: invite people to slow down and enjoy the moment. You don’t need to have everything figured out to make people feel at home. Comfort and joy come from the little things – a crackling fire, a soft blanket, and the sounds of laughter echoing in its old familiar walls.
And if a house that’s been standing for nearly 300 years can pull it off, so can we.
