a dream house

For as long as I can remember, certainly before I knew the difference between a Gambrel and a hip roof, I have loved the symmetry of Georgian style architecture. For an equal period of time, I have been dismayed at the sight of a house or any building left to its own defense when clearly assistance is in dire need.

So as I headed north from the old farmhouse on the weekend, I lapped up the serene views of rolling hillsides dotted with more barns and silos than I usually see in an entire week of commuting. Just as I was within arm's reach of the hamlet where, as a child, my grandfather chased chickens and skipped school to help his parents make sausage, I was stopped dead in my tracks by the sight of this. I often stop for barns, but seldom for a house, not that I don't love them but it's not often I see one quite as grand as this one.

A red brick Georgian beauty, with a chimney on each side, a front entrance graced with a transom, the remnants of a long, graceful front porch that swept across the entire front facade and a foundation, my goodness just look at that beautiful stone foundation; how beautiful that stonework must be from the inside. And while the original windows have long disappeared, they would have been as smart as a bow tie when this house was a babe. And, those little attic windows keep calling my eye, imagine an attic so large that you could play marbles for days without bumping into your little brother. 

It sits alone now, appearing empty of residents, yet full of memories. It holds more memories than a human lifetime could possibly experience, memories of many a Christmas, of harvest times, of canning days, of hot summer nights, of record snowfalls, of weddings and funerals, of family, long time friends and the odd one time visitor, of laughter and tears, of peace, joy and just being. This is a place that lives in the moment and asks, when you stop and BE...what memories do you hold dear?

~Be well friends~

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