Sunday, August 5, 2012

the cave where we stayed and who came

A good inspector will scare you, she is pulling down the attic door. I look into what will be a guest bedroom. Two large windows face me from across the space, another door to my left or east leads into a sun room. She is looking for me now, found I had not followed her up the stairs. I hear my name but open the doors to a closet which looks like a tiny hall. This could be a darkroom off a studio. She is behind me so I tell her.


I walk through a bathroom heading north. Here is pink of the medicinal kind. It is the main color of the house and I wonder if the previous owner got a good deal or if it was the construction crew she said had lived here turning every room into a bedroom. Cable hookup throughout.


Across the hall is Slater's room, my favorite because of the huge bookshelf built into the wall. Books, all his books will go there and  there is room for more. Nine foot ceilings, a shelf above the door, a mantle, a fireplace, a roomy closet, a window which looks out front. In the lead, a boy. This is where he will be. I tell her. She responds, Yeah. This is one of my favorite rooms.


I turn left into the hall. It has wood floors until I reach a far east into the addition. Here is an old shag carpet. It will have to be replaced, but this could be my bedroom. It has it's own bath and five, count them five windows. The bed will go over there or maybe there or maybe against this wall. It has it's own built in bookshelf as well. A place for the ones I choose to keep, those I haven't read or my favorites. Wealth of Nations by Adam Smith, volumes one and two. Viktor Frankl and meaning his search of. Stephen King on writing and Anne Lamott too. First edition Shogun and Three Years in Mississippi. The Great Gatsby and Walden. Who could live without Thoreau? Hemingway, Gertrude Stein. JD Salinger changed my life. The Holy Bible and Twain, we've always had prophets. McMurtry, I love that man 'cause he gave me Gus. Vonnegut and his slaughterhouse. Faulkner with that sly grin. Daddy and I call him Willie. He built Rowan Oak. You should see it.


Sold. I want it. I'll take it. Whadda we do?
You need an inspection.
Okay. Let's do it.








what coulda been remained a closet







Today I am grateful for the house which became our home, our center, where we met in the evenings and on weekends. A place that has seen tears and laughter but much more laughter I assure you. Fifteen years worth. We have sanded, painted, built and refinished but did nothing more than it did to us. It's a good one.



2 comments:

Gunnars Mulders said...

i do not know how you take beautiful pictures

Shea Goff said...

yes you do, Gunnars.