This Old House

It's been a very damp September/October. And really kind of smelly.

I suppose it was all in the forecast- a new one year old baby, a potty-training two year old, an excitable boy who doesn't want to miss a thing, and a horribly regressive five year old girl.

I'm just relieved the dog has been good, the cats are not sick, and that none of us original inhabitants have taken leave of our senses and begun to pee and poo willy nilly wherever the spirit urges.

I've imagined slapping maxi pads on anyone over three and plastic pants/rain suits on anyone two or less. I've had tiny panic attacks imagining all the possible wet spots that are slowly growing into an overwhelming cesspool of pee pee marsh- that is my house.

So on weekends, I hunt for windswept houses with plenty of ventilation.

I drink in the blue prairie sky and meditate in the symphony of waving grasses.

I stand in a yellow room and dream of what once was. I make it a happy family in a happy yellow room because It's the loveliest scenario.

If the walls could talk. But they do in ways, and if I were a photographer I'd want a backdrop just like this.

If I were a painter, I'd seek to recreate this patina.

And if I were a bird, I'd live here too. Reclaim it, celebrate it, bring back some life, and some more stories.

And if, long ago, this had been my family home, I hope I would have restored it.

I'd wash my bowls in this kitchen sink.

Store my salsa in this pantry.

Slide open those pocket doors and invite my friends to

Stay.

Stay a little longer.

The view is spectacular.

 

There's plenty of room.

Bring your friends too.

Everything here is so golden.

And rich.

These prairie roads have given me so very much this damp, damp Autumn.

So much peace and happiness and imagination, fresh air and old house air, and treks through the stubble.

Until Monday brings me back to babies, their heads buried in my neck, little hands grabbing.

And lysol spray cleaner, rags, and a few sighs,

Until Saturday finds me again.

 

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