There’s a little yellow house set back in the trees
near a lake; it’s rundown and available for a song. I just need to find it. The
front porch sags a bit, but the bones are strong and the black and white
linoleum in the kitchen still has a sheen to it. Outside the kitchen window,
lilacs and wisteria grow in tangles and there are footprints in the cement near
the step; little girl foot and handprints; the name and date aren’t visible
anymore. I open the back screen door and there’s a rush of pungent weeds filling
my nostrils; through the trees, I can see a sparkle of water and even though
it’s too far to see, I know there’s a little dock down there with an old
rowboat tied up, probably not seaworthy any longer, but it’s there, bobbing in
the chilly water. This little place has been sitting for at least 20 years,
waiting for hands on the doorknobs and feet on the linoleum, for the smell of
coffee to waft through the lilacs and warm old fashioned music to curl around
the corners and fill all the rooms, making those spirits that still linger here
feel at home and happy. Apple Orchard Lane.
Along the threshold on the closed in porch, there’s mud and fluff, possibly from sheep or llamas being sheared, old ropes hang on the wall and a (Tennessee?) license plate rusted. Down the hall into the bedroom, I feel the energy and warmth of a brass bed with a yellow and white comforter, now moved along to wherever the family went; but the squeak, the feel and the softness of the cloth stitched together, still hangs in the air. I feel the arthritis in my fingers and imagine the quilting frame on the table with women around, chatting, tea cups and lemon cake.
Out in the back, under weeds and brush, is a brick
patio, nicely laid, no cracks. I’ll clear out the brush and set my blue and
green and yellow pots at the corners, fill them with poppies and coriander.
Paint will be needed for the house but not now. Now, it’s just time to visit
the house, feel it, smell it. The little town needs a newspaper editor; just 3
days a week, and just enough to pay for the monthly rent/mortgage payments.
I’ll land that job, no problem.
Possibly this is a silly exercise, but I am sitting
here and that little house is sitting THERE… it is there and it is calling out
to me. Somehow, I will find it or it will find me.
