I got up early today to feed the cats and every window in the house has lacy ice-work in the corners. It looks like Martha Stewart came by in the night and decorated for me. No--not Jack Frost--he is imaginary--everybody knows that--nope--it was Martha --I can tell--it's prettier than natural.
I live in a perfect little 80 year old house that I swear to you looks just like Gladys Tabers Stillmeadow illustrations. It is a one story from the front but the attic is finished. It is white with green shutters and roof. From the front it is perfectly symetrical--a door in the middle and windows on both sides. It has plaster walls that are arched to the ceiling--so no corner. It has hard wood floors and a giant kitchen sans dishwasher and garbage disposal. I have dishwashers, my girls--but so far no garbage disposer. Although the windows have storm windows--the frost still decorates and the wind still howls and makes you think of any movie trying to scare you.
The sunrise this morning was all pale rose quartz and opal blue. Sometimes this place is so beautiful I ache with it. And then some human will screw it up.
I'm going to read OUR MISS BOO by Margaret Rundbeck. It's all about a charming and fanciful child of four or five and at the end, after all these touching little scenes only a mother would notice in such detail you find out that Boo isn't the woman's natural child--
I'm raising my Granddaughters. I don't get to be a Grandmother--almost never. Mostly I have to be a MOTHER and a REFEREE and DISCIPLIN--IST and the one who yells CLEAN THE DAMN CAT BOX!
Yep--Martha and me--we're this ll close.