The House on the Corner

I’m a creature of habit.  My husband laughs that he knows exactly how many steps I’m going to take every morning from our bedroom to the kitchen to start coffee.  And exactly which buttons on the microwave I’m going to push and which cup I’m going to use.  And when I’m having a rotten morning – well that gets signaled by maybe two extra steps or stomping.

So when I tell you that I take the same route to work every morning, you shouldn’t be surprised.  Yes it does give me “think” time that isn’t devoted to deciding where to turn next.  It also gives me a framework for considering change whether that is the seasons or the folks on the jogging/walking trail at the park or the new noises my engine is making.

But the thing that most gives me cause to ponder and wonder and imagine is the house on the corner.  It sits across the street from the park overlooking all of the wonderful paths and trees and the pond.  It’s one of those old houses that is unique from every other house in the neighborhood (which is part of the reason you know it is an old house).  And it has…well it has…soul, mystery, an “air”…I’m never quite sure how to describe this house except that it appears to be watching.

Yes that sounds very weird.  No I did not drink my lunch.  Not today.  Maybe it is the construction of the house and the choice of stone (limestone-ish) and paint color (muddy green) and blank windows that give it a “feel”.  They certainly contribute.  Part of it definitely is the yard.  There are HUGE trees surrounding the house and overshadowing it – I’m a bit surprised that the local electric company hasn’t severely trimmed them.  There is a porch that always seems to have something abandoned on it – you know how things are flung down in a heap.

The entire house has a sense of being abandoned.  Spring has definitely arrived here with all of its glorious growing and springing to life.  Our lawn guy started arriving about three weeks ago to make sure that we are properly manicured.  Likewise the homes all along my route to work are ship shape, tidy, and dressed up for a brilliant celebration.  Except for the house on the corner.  The grass is knee-high and heading-out (which if you’re wondering is an agricultural term for going to seed – not a statement about mobility).  The sidewalk becomes invisible as it runs up along side the house – one knows it must still be there, logically, but what if…

If this was October, the house on the corner wouldn’t seem so strange I guess.  One could assume it was preparing for Halloween or some other pagan holiday or even just nestling in for winter.  But it’s spring, the season of waking up and coming to life and rejuvenation.  Does no one love this house?  Does no one actually live there?  Who comes and goes?

Or is it just filled with ghosts watching from long ago as life today goes by?  Knowing the number of steps it takes to get from the corner to the pond, and how many children danced down the path long ago, and whether the sidewalk-chalk poet is still scribing art in the dusk.  But those secrets can’t be told for there is no one to listen.  And the house on the corner can only watch – not tell.

I wish the ghosts would at least write a check to the lawn guy.