Nicole's Blog Post

 This story was inspired by our virtual visit to the Dolley Todd house.

The Dressmaker’s Apprentice

I rap on the door of the Madison House as a particularly cruel gust of wind sends a chill to the depths of my bones. I should be used to them by now, these sadistic Philadelphia winters. Though in my defense, this winter season has been especially callous. 

The chill imbues confidence in me to knock again. “Ms. Madison, I’m here for your fitting!” No reply. So in an impolite and irresponsible attempt to get out of the cold, I twist the gilded knob to find that the door is open.

The first thing I noticed about the Madison House was the warmth. The house envelops you like a mother swaddling up her baby from the cold, hard night. It’s warm as a home should be--or as I’ve heard homes to be. I find myself wandering around the foyer, the wood flooring never daring to creak underneath my feet, only politely chirping wherever I step. As I perch myself onto the well-mannered sofa, letting my almost unworthy feet dirty up the fine stitching on the rug, it occurs to me that I never had a home--only a house.

That is not to say I don’t love my house; I do, like a mother still loves her most petulant child. In fact, I loved my house so much that I hadn’t even known it wasn’t a home until now--but now the differences are so jarring, the two are practically juxtaposed. For one thing, a house is far more ignorant than a home. The paint in a house is indecisive, and peels only days after it makes up its mind to dry. The walls in a house are gullible, and are easily tricked into letting the Philadelphia draft into the house. The floors are gossips, announcing loudly anything you wish to do in the house, especially when you prefer not to be heard. The pipes, the furniture, even the furnace--all aspects of the house are almost useless to its inhabitant. The only truly reliable part of the house is the roof, who loves the discordant house below it enough to remain on top of it, to shield it from the wrath of elements--and even then, the roof still gets tired. The roof of a house is often sagging, a testament of what it has had to endure throughout time.

The roof of the Madison House--or rather, the Madison Home--shows no sign of fatigue. It stands proud and commands respect, as does the rest of the home. It deserves it, too, every inch of the home is perfectly chivalrous and tirelessly rehearsed. Every piece has its own part to play, and plays it to perfection, as any item worth anything ought to.

But that’s what it’s all about, is it not? Worth, value, price? That is the real difference between a house and a home. A house, like its tenants, is not worth anything. No matter how hard we work, no matter how many dresses we sew or fittings we do, I’ll never be worth more than the Dolley Madisons of the world. It’s almost comical. Everyone I’ve ever known and loved grew up in a house, and they are all the most tireless and persisting people to ever come into my life. They slave throughout the day trying to make their houses into homes, trying to win a game that was rigged from the start. Dolley Madison hasn’t done anything to earn her home. She was born lucky and married well--she is yet another wife awarded for her mediocrity and politeness.

The house isn’t warm anymore--it burns. The heat violently taunts my bare skin, causing it to weep tears of sweat onto the duvet. I know now that the house was never warm, that the true nature of this house is this violent, unwavering heat. Its warmth was superficial, its welcoming ambiance conditional, the structure itself a wolf in sheep’s clothing. I now yearn for my own home, for the sagging roof and the gullible walls and the prattling floorboards. They are flawed but they are genuine, they don’t possess this air of false kindness that is so suffocating in the Madison House. 

I know I need to leave, regardless of Dolley Madison and her trivial fittings. I scurry toward the main door with a newfound urgency. When the door creaks open, I am met with a particularly kind gust of wind.