Last Monday evening I went to visit an old pal of mine, who is house sitting a small farmhouse that’s currently on the market. She’ll stay until it sells.
She graduated from college a few years back and is trying to figure out where she belongs and right now. After my visit, I’d say she’s in the right place.
The farmhouse was built in 1875. It’s been made modern inside, but remains stoic and strong with little bits of crooked and bowed wood floors and trim. I tried to imagine the families that lived there over the little house’s history. As the people inside grew, so did the house. With a small addition here and there, a second story and a back deck. There’s a falling-down barn in the yard and freight railroad tracks run close up the hill from the back door. All a part of the house’s story. Now a part of her story.
What tickled me beyond was the front porch. With just a few close neighbors, the porch was perfection. If the house were mine I would add some wooden rockers and a few patchwork throws and make sure a sweating pitcher of lemonade was a permanent fixture from June to September on the railing to welcome passers-by.
My pal and I chatted easily on the front room sofa while I drank hot chamomile.
When I left, I was struck by the darkness of the sky and the bright stars that fell around that small acreage and on the roof of that beautiful front porch.
I suppose just about anything can strike your fancy and become your muse.