So a dozen or so years ago I bought my first house. I had lived in a series of apartments for 16 years and was sick and tired of not having enough room for my books (of course, back then I did not quite realize that I was on the hoarding spectrum and would accumulate books to fill any space). Plus, after a long period of financial travail, I had finally gotten out of a huge amount of debt, everything from credit card debt to student loan debt to tax debt, while my job situation seemed to have stabilized. It just seemed like the time to do it. It is hard to believe I have lived in this house 12 years; it really doesn’t seem like it. In fact, I never did fully unpack from the move. I guess it is that way with most people. But somewhere along the line my house became my home. This excursion, taken on a very cold and icy February day into the wilds of northeastern Ohio, has a lot of photographs of houses—and homes, if you take my meaning. It is a very building-intensive entry, but it’s worth the effort.