It’s hard to imagine a day in the life of the working class people of the 19th and early 20th centuries – the ones who toiled in the fields before there were tractors; who shaped iron horse shoes with hammer, anvil, and fire; who milked cows and broke the necks of chickens by hand; who hunted game with a rifle or bow, camping through vast woodlands for a fortnight or more; who shoveled coal into the hell-fire furnaces of massive locomotives; who poured molten ore into molds to make the infrastructures of the burgeoning cities; and who balanced on iron beams hundreds of feet in the air to erect the first skyscrapers and magnificent bridges.

I’m imagining a home during those times – somewhere out on a prairie, or in the Appalachian woods, or in the sooty heart of an industrial city. There is a common element among these homes despite the different geographical environments: a family – maybe three, four, five members or more – is gathered in a small, sparsely furnished, wood floor house.

Outside it is cold and growing dark at the end of the workday. Inside, they are seated in wooden chairs, away from a large wooden table. The room is illuminated by a wavering orange glow from a fireplace or stove. Someone is reading a story aloud, while someone else stokes the embers of the fire, sending up a flurry of sparks.The smell of smoke from burning wood dominates the air, and the sound of the wind thrums through the walls.

Somewhere near or far live the well-to-do folks of those times – the ones in the two and three-story Victorian, Tudor, Romanesque, and other stately homes of the villages and cities. These are the higher educated and trained professionals, the entrepreneurs, and the privileged ones who had inherited an estate.

Inside are high ceilings, spacious living and dining rooms, bright kitchens, elegant mantels, wide switching staircases, tall pantries, and uniquely designed bedrooms and dens.

Outside, twilight arrives soon after dinner, and the family members begin to disperse to their designated spaces. Lights flicker on in separate rooms as the occupants settle into their private meditations. As the hours pass, the houses gradually go dark, fade to turreted or gabled silhouettes beneath the stars, and street lamps hold the last amber glow of the village.

The majority of the American population during those times lived in the homes roughly described above, both the humble and the grand. While the life inside each is a romanticized stereotype, the homes themselves are real – hardy structures that took years to build. Plenty of them remain standing today with solid foundations and infrastructures, the products of architects and builders who valued both style and durability.

Times have changed, as has architectural integrity, and most people today prefer new houses. I don’t pretend to know anything about the families residing in those homes today, big or small, new or old. But I do suspect that few are sitting together around a fireplace, listening to the wind, or reading stories out loud from a book. And in many of the larger homes, I would guess that a family dinner is not a regular thing, and when it does happen, the table is set with dishes, glasses, silverware, and cellphones.

As I drive along Route 5 heading to Westfield, I can’t help but wonder about some of the mansions by the lake, especially during the holiday season. They seem so quiet, solitary, detached, untouchable. I wonder who is in there. Are there faces in dark rooms behind the high windows peering out across the lake? If so, what are they looking for? A lost ship? A green light over a new horizon?

I’ve read enough F. Scott Fitzgerald to understand that wealth is not a harbinger of happiness. I’ve seen enough of poverty to believe that sometimes hope and faith are the only sources of happiness, however wishful. And I’ve been humbled enough in life to know that I should never assume anything about other people’s homes.

They say home is where the heart is. If that is true, then it must be a place where hearts are shared, where love and forgiveness have prevailed, and the devil of division has failed. Thus, it is not the size or style of the house that makes the home. It is the life within.

Pete Howard, a teacher, musician, writer and house painter, lives in Dunkirk.