The house was rather large. It was old too. It had a lot of history. The walls were a foot thick, the way houses were built a hundred years ago. The kitchen was at the rear, where they entered.

“This house has been in my family for three generations! My grandfather built it himself!” the old man bragged. “My father added indoor plumbing. I added 200 amp service and central heating.” He smiled, obviously proud. “I was born in this house!” It seemed to be time to change the subject.

I asked to use the restroom. “Down the hall, second door on the left.”

I passed rows of pictures on the wall. Some black and white, some of families, some just portraits. A small film of dust covered them, as well as the doily on the long sidebar table in the hall, decorated with more pictures in silver frames. There obviously hadn’t been a Mrs. in the picture for a while.

To prove this point, I used the last squares of toilet paper on the roll.

“You’re out of toilet paper.” I informed him.

“THAT’S what I went to town for!”