Breaking and Entering

Baltimore writer and Loyola University prof Ron Tanner doesn’t believe all “no trespassing” signs ought to be obeyed.

I break into old houses. Unoccupied houses. Abandoned houses. They have to be architecturally interesting, and the older, the better. I started doing this when I was 10, always in the company of my two older brothers. We never took “no trespassing” signs seriously. This is problematic, I understand. I am now a property owner and think of myself as respectful of other property owners. So, let me admit the obvious: trespassing is wrong. That’s why it’s against the law. Still, a “no trespassing” sign on an old, empty house seems to me more of a suggestion than an injunction.

Jill, my wife, never questioned my desire to get into old, empty houses. This is one of the reasons I love her. She and I are old house fanatics. Nothing turns our heads more quickly than, say, an abandoned, three-story Victorian that’s been boarded up. One such house was difficult to get into because I had to clamber four feet up the back side of a decrepit sun porch, then ease my way through a broken window. I told Jill to wait outside. A few minutes later I was standing in the gloom, getting my bearings, when, suddenly behind me I heard: “Isn’t this cool?” Jill had followed me in. Had we not been married to each other already, I would have asked her to marry me right then and there.

Getting into an abandoned house is always a two-person job. Somebody has to act as look-out and, if necessary, rescuer. One time, Jill and I got inside a gorgeous little Gothic revival wood-framed house in rural North Carolina. It was so overgrown with vines, we could see only the gable peaks and the gingerbread trim along the roofline.  It had once been an exceptional house, more so because of its craftsmanship in this remote location. Inside, it was mostly intact — with chestnut wainscoting and a curving oak banister — but clearly wouldn’t be standing for another year because there were gaping holes in the roof: water damage takes down a house rapidly. We were walking across the living room when Jill fell through the floor.

Fortunately, there was no basement, so the ground a couple feet below broke her fall. Still, she was wedged up to her thighs in rotted floorboard. Unharmed, she laughed about it. Often you can’t tell at a glance if wood is sound. In this case, it was clear that we could not go upstairs. Going upstairs is always a temptation because you never know what you’ll find — old furniture, antique clothes, or, more likely, an unusual architectural detail. My desire to explore is a kind of fun-house compulsion to see what is next, but it’s also a desire to capture something rare and fleeting, like ghost hunting. Inside an old house, I picture the families who lived here, the celebrations long forgotten, and the world that cherished such lovely buildings. Standing in the gloomy grandeur of an old house places me as nothing else can. Think of Pip in Miss Havisham’s house.

I have never come across another person, living or dead, in these houses, but that uneasy prospect is always in the back of my mind. I recall Huck Finn’s exploration of a grounded steamboat in a rainstorm — it was as big as a mansion — and his witnessing a murder just before he got away as the boat broke up in the raging current. That’s not the kind of excitement I seek. And this may explain why I don’t watch slasher movies, most of which seem to take place in abandoned old houses.

Not long ago, Jill and I saw a TV news report about a Baltimore mansion that had been used illegally as a boarding house. When the camera panned over the now-abandoned house, we looked at each other in surprise: where was it? It sat on a hill and no other house stood nearby. How could this be in our city and we had not discovered it? After some research, we located the house and, that weekend, found it: an elegant, brick Victorian with a broad porch. If you didn’t know where it was, you’d never imagine this country estate was tucked behind a nondescript urban neighborhood.

Getting inside was easy: one of the first-floor windows was broken. The mansion had changed little over the years and was in excellent condition. None of the woodwork had been painted. Jill and I roamed from room to room, playing house — that is, fantasizing about what we’d do with this grand place if it were ours.

There happened to be a smaller house nearby, probably having belonged to the groundskeeper. We had to visit that too. It was of later construction but of interest. Jill was reaching for the handle of its back door when, suddenly, an older man appeared on the other side of the door, startling us.

He said, “Don’t go anywhere. I just phoned the police.”

For a moment I thought of walking away, getting to our car and taking off. But what did we have to hide? We were nothing more than wayward tourists. So Jill and I sat in the man’s yard and waited. I talked him up. His elder brother had owned the houses and the property — 17 acres in the middle of Baltimore — but had now been deemed mentally incompetent, so the younger brother was selling it. In fact, the estate was already under contract.

He said, “I’ve got to be careful about vandals and thieves, you know.”

I told him I understood and, were I in his place, I’d be just as careful.

Increasingly, I was nervous about the imminent arrival of the police but understood that the man would have to press charges, which would be a lot of trouble for him. And so it was: when the cops arrived, I told them that we loved the house and had hoped that it was on the market. They nodded their understanding. The owner nodded his. Then we were free to go.

Things would have turned out much differently, I know, had Jill and I not looked like a middle class, middle-aged couple. I pictured myself trying to explain to a judge that for me housebreaking is a celebration of these buildings: I honor them with my reverent, albeit illegal, secret tours. Very likely, this explanation wouldn’t make sense to most serious-minded people, but I’m working on an explanation nonetheless because it is only a matter of time and chance before I get caught again, breaking into a house that isn’t mine.

Ron Tanner’s latest book is From Animal House to Our House: A Love Story, about how he and Jill bought condemned property, a wrecked former frat house, and — knowing nothing about fixing houses — brought it back to its original Victorian splendor. Their work was featured in This Old House magazine in 2008. They now run a website about the house and DIY restoration: www.houselove.org