The poison ivy rash has not subsided, and I went camping over the weekend. Oy. What to do. Had to come home early I was itching so bad, and friends were alarmed at the puffy red continents on the map of my body. I assured them I would get a cortisone shot, but on finding the cost was $275 at the doc shop, I said fuck that! That is one tenth the cost of a roof job!
I've jumped in a hole again and I'm not surprised. At 60 it is safe to say i know myself. I believe this will all turn out to the good because this house has an enduring spirit in and of itself, not to mention the spirit of Tommie who endured so much in it. And I believe she loved her house as I will inevitably come to love it as my own.
Every so often I get this really good feeling, sitting at my desk working away, glancing out the window to watch the school bus go by in the afternoon. The light is very nice at that hour, and the Dogwood on the front lawn shimmers its green grace at me. The orange tabby across the street comes by for its daily visit. Apparently the front lawn was its litterbox before me, but I put a stop to that. Now we may never be friends, but he and his twin brother are still pondering the possibility.
When that feeling hits I mention it, well, to the air really. I smile and say it's a great little house, Tommie! and hope her spirit senses my pleasure. I hope she is happy now and was happy on this earth. God forbid she was a raging cranky-ass bitch crone. Not that I have ever gotten that impression from anyone I have ever spoken to who knew her.
I dream dreams of impeccably painted doorways and vaulted ceilings. Of cottage-grade windows with true lites, bright warm rooms and lattice-pattern anything. Cozy corner cupboards stacked with old books and vintage glass on raw muslin or overstuffed chairs on Belgian silk runners. Fresh flowers in a living room full of good friends' laughter and low lights on linen in a bedroom full of good love.
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