Florida, Oddly Enough

 

Ohio house

Thirty years ago, there were three large old maple trees on the small lot, now two. The third and most beautiful had to be removed after an ice storm had caused it to be a liability for cars parked in the street. The removed maple had branches that curved beautifully and provided nice shade for cars parked underneath. Looking out the front windows was a joy in all seasons as the tree changed its costume, but autumn was perhaps the most beautiful. A few times, squirrels would carry the small pumpkins from the festive pumpkin arrangements on the steps of the house, up into the curving branches where they would leisurely consume them over a week or so. Children wondered how little pumpkins got up into the tree. In the fall wet leaves would slap down upon the heavy roots of the trees, and squirrels would nestle into the branches hiding loot from the nearby walnut trees.

The life of the house, inanimate as it seems, was rich with imprinted memory. Whose footsteps had crossed the porch and climbed the stairs? The house wouldn't know except that small sparks of light had remained, no doubt caused by the people. The house contained the sparks. Different sparks for different people, over time. Dreams had been dreamt in sleeping heads, upon pillows in beds, set upon its old pine floors. Dreams left cloudy scented layers in the house's walls. In the 1940's Mabel had lived there. She had a label maker and had marked the washing machine and basement cabinets with her name. The Germans who built the house had made sure the bedrooms had curved ceilings so no ghosts, not even Mabel's, could disturb the slumber of the people who would live there.

A mock orange tree, a lilac bush, spirea, had all sunk their roots into the clay soil. Roses, a few times, had been attempted in flower beds, but only the rambling rose on the back fence grew strong, red and fragrant. Hollyhocks came and went, but the honeysuckle on the alley fence was triumphant. Strawberries, planted too close to the house, were rabbit gifts.

From the windows, scenes of other houses could be seen, and in winter it was beautiful to look north from the upstairs window. Three tall and sisterly pines flanked a slate roofed home, and on gray evenings when the sun was setting, a beautiful picture was painted in a person's mind, more than once.

The house was a setting for many scenes, tragic, beautiful, sweet, and terrible scenes, scenes from stories, as all old houses are. When new people settle in, with beds and babies and silverware, they'll make new stories.

~Dorothy Dolores