• Paula Routly ©️ Seven Days
• A Preservation Burlingon sign

I had 600 people over on Saturday.

My home on Lakeview Terrace was one of six on the annual self-guided tour and fundraiser organized by Preservation Burlington, a local nonprofit whose motto is "Keeping history relevant."

When tour chair Matt Viens first popped the question, back in March, he conceded that my place was not a great example of historic architecture or preservation; there's nothing special about the furnishings, either. But thanks to the previous owners, it represents a dramatic renovation in a changing neighborhood with a great backstory. I wrote an essay for Seven Days about the house — a love letter, really — soon after I bought it in 2009.

Its greatest selling point is a 180-degree view of Lake Champlain that includes the landmark Moran Plant. For the 35 years the facility was operational, producing power on the industrial Burlington waterfront, the south wind reliably blew dust from coal, and then wood, over this street on a bluff at the western edge of the city. The mostly working-class residents of Lakeview Terrace lived in modest homes that were packed in tight, their lake-facing yards crowded with sheds and other practical outbuildings. They hung out on front, not back, porches, to avoid the pollution.

The neighborhood started to attract a different demographic after the Moran Plant shut down in 1986. As old-timers have left or died, their properties have been snatched up by more affluent home buyers, many of whom made significant improvements. The backyard sheds have been replaced by lush gardens, Adirondack chairs and quite a few Airbnbs. Apartment buildings have sprouted on either end of the street, but, as real estate values have climbed steadily, long-term renters know they'll probably never be able to buy here.

I said yes to Matt in part because others on the lake side of the street said no. Participating would help Preservation Burlington. And, at the time, June 10 seemed a long way off.

But as the day approached, I started to get nervous. Not about having to clean the house or the prospect of it being overrun by strangers — though the sight of people streaming up the stairs, into the bedroom I share with my partner, Tim Ashe, is one I won't soon forget.

It's that I've developed a weird social anxiety over the years: Exacerbated by the pandemic, it's a fear that I won't recognize or remember people I've already met. I know of others who've had similar reactions since coming out from behind their KN95s. People look different when all you can see are their eyes.

My panic must have showed — or this mostly unmasked group was uncannily perceptive. Many people introduced themselves again, including one I met just a few weeks ago for coffee at Muddy Waters. Everyone was kind and understanding and grateful to have the run of the place. And they left no trace; it was the largest, cleanest party we've ever hosted.

Of course, Tim and I could have abandoned ship for the duration of the four-hour tour, gone somewhere else for the afternoon. Many homeowners choose that option, apparently. But we decided to stay and are glad we did. We showed visitors detailed photos, provided by a former owner, of the late 1980s renovation. We pointed out cherished artwork we've collected over the years by Vermont artists Gail Salzman, Sara Katz, Sabra Field, Harry Bliss, Ed Koren, Alison Bechdel, Katharine Montstream, Beth Pearson, Abby Manock, Matt Thorsen, Gillian Klein and others. And I saw — and greeted — plenty of Super Readers who are supporting Seven Days financially.

Tim and I wore name tags. I just wish everyone else did, too — everywhere, all the time.