I live amidst rows of apartment buildings steeped in early 20th century history, when this area was still being shaped by the hands of architects. My own building dates from 1915, when Wilson was President and when the Great War in Europe raged on. Here in Boston, the Red Sox won the World Series. They would win the next year, too. My building will have its centennial in two years and I often think about all the souls who have dwelled within these walls I now claim as my own. I see the history in the moldings and the doorknobs and on the spindles of the staircase that leads me to my door. There's grandeur in the design of these buildings, most of which goes unnoticed by the many college students and young professionals who occupy them. I know far less about architecture than I'd liked to, but it thrills me to walk past these structures and notice a detail I hadn't seen the day before.
And there is nothing so wonderful as having windows covered in ivy and grape vine, as mine are.