There several places I lived that hold fond memories for me. Some have been torn down or otherwise re appropriated. Now I drive by the ones that still exist and wonder what it is like inside, how things might have changed, what might still be there that I remember. I’d guess it’s a natural nostalgia thing, but I’ve never been able to bring myself to act on it.
Putting myself in the role as the door knocker answerer I’d be immediately suspicious that the knocker was looking to case my joint for a possible burglary, if not outright murder me for merely answering the door. OTOH, I’d be interested in hearing whatever history the knocker had to share.
I’m asking if any Dopers have rung the doorbell of a house you lived in 50 years ago to see if they’d let you in for a look around? How did that go?
I’ve had people come by who used to come to visit family members when those people lived here, and ask if they could walk around the farm. They didn’t ask to come in the house. I’m trying to remember if I asked any of them in, but I think the most recent time was during covid but pre-vaccination and I wasn’t letting much of anybody in so I didn’t.
I once, when about twenty, showed up on the doorstep of the house I grew up in, which my parents had recently moved from. I hadn’t known that was where I was headed when I went for a walk, but that’s where I wound up; and it was far enough that I think I explained myself to the residents and asked to borrow a phone to call for a ride back (this would have been about 1970.) I don’t believe I went into the house, though; or if so only to use the phone, but they might have called for me.
I think you could go knock on the door, tell them that you used to live there, but not ask to go in. They might have questions about the place, or might just think it was neat to meet a previous resident, and so might want to talk to you; and if so, they might invite you in. But I wouldn’t ask, I’d wait to be invited (or not, as the case might be; and they might well not do so.)
The place I’m thinking of is in a small town. My dad and grandparents were fairly well known. I figure all I’d have to do is drop my name and the names of the immediate neighbors. That would give me some credibility. But yeah, I wouldn’t ask to be invited in, I’d just hope they’d invite me.
Look the address up on Zillo. Chances are very good that you will find pictures of the interior as well information on when outbuildings and certain building projects were completed.
Only one that I lived in as a child in Anchorage. Nobody was home. We also went to the house my grandmother lived in in Portland, and where I had visited as a child in the 50s. The guy invited us in to have a look at the place, which had been remodeled. Also went to see the house my other grandfather built in Portland over a hundred years ago. I never knew that side of my family, so never saw the house before that. Same thing: the guy invited us in and I showed him the original paperwork for the place.
My brother stopped by the house my parents used to own in N Philly some years back. The black family that now lived there were at first suspicious about the white dude parked out front and went to see what he was up to. After he explained they invited him inside but I think he declined, didn’t want to intrude really and he was an infant when they moved away to S Fla.
I invited in the octogenarians who stopped by my house when they said they were the ones who built the “cottage”. They were super cute old couple dressed up for church and stayed a little while. Then they had to get back to “Mother” who was still in the car waiting/sleeping near a hundred years old she was.
My sister and I went to see the house we grew up in about 7 or 8 years ago. The family my folks sold the house to still owned it, and it was obvious we were their kids, so they had no qualms about letting us in. It was interesting to see the dramatic changes they’d made.
I was born during WW2 in a small Oxfordshire village. The cottage had no indoor plumbing and the couple who lived there became my godparents.
In the 1980s I took my wife to see the place of my birth which, of course, had been considerably extended and modernised. I did knock on the door and, in spite of having my excessively cute three-year-old daughter in my arms, got a very frosty reception.
The reason this came up is that the house my great grandparents built recently went up for sale on Zillow. I’m not at all interested in buying it but I do want to see if I can sked an appointment to see it. I’m hoping they have an open house so I can look at it without hassling anybody. From Zillow’s pics it looks like nothing major changed from what I remember. We did a major remodel on it in the early 70’s. My uncle was a licensed electrician and under his guidance I did a lot of the wiring in the place. If nothing else, I’m glad to see it hasn’t burned down
There’s just weird stuff I wanna see. Like is the outhouse still there? Is the toboggan run we used as kids still there? Is the toilet I helped my grandfather install still there? Is the water pump pressure tank I hauled to the basement still there? Weird stuff to remember.
A few years after my family moved, my dad and I went back to our old house (only about a mile away). The primary reason was because we were looking for some old fishing poles and realized we left them there. The new owners, that as far as I know, didn’t know us, were fine with us grabbing them (still exactly where we left them in the basement) and we took a quick walk around the house after that.
I’d love to see it now. It sold again about 10 years ago and based on the pictures I saw, someone must have sunk a good 100k into it.
Now, if someone showed up at my door with that story, I’d be telling them to pound sand. Mostly because I’d be really uncomfortable with it, but also because the previous (and only other) owners were assholes.
When I was about 30 I was visiting my college town. I stopped by the dorm I used to live in, and walked in to see my old room. The door to the room was open and no one was there, so I stood in the hallway looking into the room for a minute. Then the occupant returned and asked me what I was doing. I told him that I used to live in the room about 10 years ago. He said “Wow, you’re old!” I refrained from punching the little whippersnapper.
Yep, had this happen when I lived off campus at Ohio State. Come football season, someone in the area would talk about the old folks who stopped by to visit their old apartments and basically just sigh.
I’ve driven by and parked next to mine myself, but never knocked. Still a college town ghetto., damn we was po.
People do this regularly at the house I moved into 5 years ago. The house is more than 200 years old. I’ve had a guy in his sixties come by with photographs of the house as it was when his grandparents lived there and he was a small boy. I’ve had a very old lady show up with her embarrassed daughter, who was a descendant of the family that built it (they were the recipients of the original land plat in 1760). Turns out she is the family genealogist and had a lot of very old material she had copied for me. And a number of other folks. I am always happy to show them around if they want to come in. A house this old is a community resource and memory bank as much as it is a place to live. It makes you feel quite temporary…
A woman who grew up in my house decades earlier has stopped by twice over the last 20 years. Of course, I invited her in. The first time, I gave her some old, small wooden blocks and a locket I found deep down inside the air ducts leading to the basement.
She was delighted to see the old place, and has told me many stories about growing up there, what the neighborhood was like, where she and her sister would hide in the closets, etc.
I’ve also visited the house I grew up in. It’s changed too much, though, and has little resemblance to what it used to be.
It wasn’t 50 years, more like 20; and I didn’t ring the doorbell, I was stopped on my bike out front. But the homeowner saw me speaking to my friend who I was biking with and he asked if he could help with anything. I say that I used to live here and he asked if I was Telemark. They bought the house from my parents. He showed me around and asked a few questions about how we did certain things. It was a very nice visit.
A few months ago I posted a thread about the house I grew up in. The house is still there, and (as mentioned above) my mother still lives there.
It’s an old, Cape Cod-style house on a couple wooded acres with a creek. I played in that yard all through the 1970s. Today, when I walk around the property, all those memories come flooding back: planting the garden, playing hide-and seek, catching lightning bugs, flying kites, building tree forts, wading in the creek. Such innocent times.
