I live an old house. It makes sense: writer, vintage property, high on a hill, seclusion. If the liquor store delivered, I’d never leave. Atmosphere is never in short supply, the house adapting to seasons like a clapboard chameleon. I connected to this house the second I saw it, even after confronted by a kitchen that looked like something the Property Brothers would reject. In its favor was a to-die-for sunroom and built-in character, the kind modern homes can’t possibly produce.