Pleasure in the Ruins

‘To delight in the aspects of sentient ruin might appear a heartless pastime, and the pleasure, I confess, shows the note of perversity.’ From Italian Hours (1873) by Henry James.

Pic, above, here.
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When I was a small girl traveling to Georgia, from Texas, before I-20 was completed I never tired of seeing an old rotting farmhouse, still inhabited.  In summer, windows & doors open.  Intuitively knowing this was great poverty, the type that kills.  In particular a single worn out farmhouse remains vivid, tattered cloth spilling from an open window, and thru the open front door I could see the main room wallpapered with newsprint, a few strips hanging down and dozens of loose corners, behind them, more newsprint.  A tall gaunt man, stooped but not old, walking to the front porch, sitting in a chair.  Nothing human in his eyes excepting misery.
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I was safely in the backseat of our late model 4-door Buick Electra 225, 401 V-8 Wildcat 445, white body, white-wall tires, blue brocade seats, air-conditioning, sister/mom/dad, Argyle our standard poodle, and Puppet our toy poodle.  Dad pushing 80mph, getting us to grandma's house.  His driving, and passing, on those 2 lane roads thrilling, and terrifying.
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Looking at abandoned farmhouses now, I like to imagine the original family, and how the house & land provided a good living.  Not the last inhabitants.
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Garden & Be Well,  XOT