This post was first published on the Rockville 8 blog in 2010. Made me cry when I re-read the story I wrote about my grandparents. What a gift to rediscover it!
A few months ago I blogged about my creativity well, the old farmhouse and grounds my grandparents inhabited for over forty years. I returned at Thanksgiving, knowing that the place had sold, steeled to say my good-byes to this once immutable touchstone of my life. My mother told me she knew the couple who ended up purchasing the house were it because the day they viewed the property, the husband sat on the bench of the breakfast nook in the spot my grandfather had always claimed as his.
This man looked through the multi-paned wavy-glass windows to watch the birds at the feeders, studied the enormous white birch that pops like a torch from the thick patch of grey-brown-green trees along the road, and gazed out at the three-seater outhouse hugging the ravine that leads down to the river. Perhaps he conjured up a story exploring the wherefores and whys of that peculiar structure. Then he relaxed into the cushioned bench seat as though he’d been groomed to take over stewardship of that particular piece of Earth’s real estate. In the space of a minute or two, the Three and a Half had become his home.
And while I am sad, sad, sad to lose the physical demesne of my creativity well I know two things. One is that its magic will flow, zesty and sparkling, through my veins the rest of my life. And second, I am grateful beyond imagining that the new owners, this husband and wife I know only through a few words from my mom, “get” just what a marvel they have in store for them. The dreams they will dream. The times they will have. The stories they will create together and share with others. What an adventure they have in store! What an adventure.
