THE House

Note: This is a tale of home.  Homecoming, homemaking, homing in. Some entries are from previously-written journals in order to keep the timeline on track.  Thanks for reading!

I wanted this house to the point of obsession. Beautiful, stately, Frank Lloyd Wright-ish, no-other-house-in-the-world-like-it house. THE house.  Built by my friend, Jack Round ( reFramehomes.com) three years ago. It waited for us, I think. Creamy walls and crisp woodwork beckon the eye; a softly trickling fountain lures one to the inglenook. Our broken-in sofa seems somehow prouder here. It is a lovely place…and after nearly two months, not yet our home. My husband remarks upon this: "It 's like living in a hotel."

I reflect as I bring pitchers of water to my potted plants. We’ve basically unpacked. I baked: zucchini bread and one round, fragrant loaf of Sally Lunn. I cleaned, washed windows, put up art, sewed cushions.  We’ve made love here, in too few spaces (drat those inquisitive children), but…. where is the lack? I stop to weed by the front flower pot, enjoying the give of the soil. The bead of sweat trailing down my back feels good. This garden is needy.  Poor soil, thin grass, a few uninspired shrubs--perhaps my elegant house is embarrassed by her tattered garments. 

This may be the path to peace with this house.  A garden.  Hm...