On St. Patrick’s day my bungalow will be 102. It has been a rescue that ten years of restoration have made fairly comfortable. Old houses, like old folks, do have quirks, however.
When a chopper lumbers over my roof, probably intervening on a freeway mess, the pair of south kitchen windows tremble and then set up a rattle in time with the blades.
The overhead rumbling gets louder and the casements join in the shaking adding to the percussive event. The vibrating reminds me of the quake of ’89.