Wednesday, November 24, 2010

Home




House became home over the course of several weeks or months, because we couldn't go out and we needed a place that could envelop us in comfort and safety. The soft pink exterior was almost flesh colored, with multiple gables like slouching shoulders. A weathervane perched on top, a flying pig, that seemed to keep watch of the world around. Tall, tall pines towered around the perimeter of the open backyard, while drooping hemlocks lined the drive that curved down the hill toward the road and the river. At night, the sky seemed black and in winter Orion was framed by the pines, the stars twinkling as gently as a lullaby. A small cabin sat at the back of the yard, it housed a perfect, tidy bedroom with a woodstove and a writing desk.
A path led from the cabin out through the woods behind the house. You had to know the way to get there; a right turn at pointy rock, under pine bridge, a left at woodpecker tree, over France rock and around Porcupine rock to the second river behind the house. The water rushed fiercely here, travelling swiftly over large, moss covered rocks and shaded by the steep hemlock slope behind. One could cross the river here, over the old dam, and walk for miles on deeply grooved horse trails through the woods.
But going back, back to the house along the little path, it would suddenly seem shady as the brightness of the grassy yard approached. Coming around the corner of the cabin, the little house stares with wide windowed eyes, and the bright perennial beds leap forth a greeting in summer. It is here that one leaves the rush of the backyard river behind, climbing the knoll that the house perches on, and the sound of the front yard river meets the ears. There is never silence, and when the wind blows hard it rushes down the little river valley with a howling fury that sounds like a thousand wolves at once.

And now, seven and a half years after the house gulped and surrounded us in our isolating anguish, its walls echo with laughter, its floors are marked with footprints and the corners house old cheerios and dust bunnies. The bedrooms call out with cheery colors, soft bean bags, and shelves of games and toys. Song bursts from within every day.

I am thankful for home.

3 comments:

Hope's Mama said...

Just lovely, Carol. Home is certainly where the heart is.
And might I say, little (big!) Aoife is starting to look so much like you! And love Liam with the Ergo. Angus would totally weigh him down! Fiona is such a lovely little feather weight!
xo

Tess said...

I feel I'm with you on your trip down to the second river: 'a right turn at pointy rock, under a bridge, a left at woodpecker tree, over France rock and around the Porcupine rock...'

I am still trying to make this house a home and can appreciate all the brilliance of having it just so.
Beautiful Carol, thank you for sharing a beautiful part of your life - as always.

Remembering all your family
Much love

lesliedispensaperlman said...

How beautiful Carol... I ownder what it will be like for me so far down the road... thank you for the image.....