The Walls Came Tumbling Down

When I quit the working world, I will miss my daily commute. You think I'm crazy, don't you?

I drive a meandering road through the woods, past ancient "burying grounds," along a lake where the colors are screaming "fall", and down a street with character, where the little cottages hunker down, and a new house is getting a fantastic stone wall lining the drive way. The cows look for greener grass (this morning one found it) by the house where fresh eggs are sold on the honor system, and the architecture I pass is a mishmash of cottages, split levels, capes, and two modern cedar homes, along with some old mansions.

Monday and Tuesday a solid but modest brick home was destroyed to make room for a new McMansion. I'm sure the rooms were small, and it probably only had a bath and a half, but it looked warm and sturdy, and now it's not even a pile of rubble, as the bricks are gone and the new construction started immediately. Here today, gone tomorrow.

Grapeshot likes modern architecture, and New England hardly has any. New England likes the cozy cape house and especially the Center Entrance Colonial, that most desirable of domiciles. How grand with its two storey entrance call, the granite kitchen, the upteen baths, the deck where no one ever appears. Bah humbug!

The farmer selling eggs lives in a "real" center entrance colonial with a date on the building. He has a center hall, of only one story, leading off into a series of gloomy parlors, no doubt. The real thing. It looks somewhat cheerless, with that long dark hallway, but it has authenticity.
I pass a Victorian and an Arts and Crafts cottage that are likewise authentic. And some funky old places that would never make House and Garden, but they do have a certain je ne sais quoi.

My grandmother's lived in a simple frame farm house. From the porch with a swing, one stepped into the area between the living and dining rooms. The dining room was larger than the living room, and when we weren't feasting, we sat at the big oval table and played cards and talked, while my grandma enjoyed her rocking chair, weary as she was from cooking for the crowds. In the evening, neighbors and relatives stopped by to "visit." Was this another world or what?

Upstairs were three bedrooms, no baths and a store room that smelled of cedar. There was an old Victrola and a cedar chest. I found a World War Two songbook and a book called The Kinsey Report. Don't know whose that was, maybe my uncle's. It was certainly an educational book. I haven't been in that house for years, but I recall every detail, from the hair brushes and container of face powder (her only cosmetic) on my Grandma's dresser to the old treadle sewing machine.

The cellar had a tornado room (this was central Kansas), with thick cinderblock walls, an ancient kerosene lantern, an ax and an old couch. My grandma kept the food she put up for the winter on shelves in the storm cellar. Homemade catsup, picalilly, peaches, pears, and a gazillion jars of tomatoes. Apricot, strawberry and peach jam. I can taste it still.

In her plain spotless house, my grandmother was happy to have an electric stove and a new refrigerator (no more icebox)! In those days, even the town banker did not live in an opulent manner. I think it was considered bad form. No McMansions then , only dreams of a ranch house with three bedrooms, and maybe an extra bath. Come to think of it, a house like the brick one they tore down this week.

It is good to get out and about in the world and look around. The football dads still congregate for practice. I think there are games, now, and winners and losers.

I received a (for a change) a nice rejection letter last week, and learned that my books didn't win any contests. I committed some tactical errors there. Sent the book to England that had a really bad English bloke in it, and sent the cosy to the noir contest. Oh well. Doesn't seem to matter much. I think I am feeling too nostalgic to suck it up.

This will never do.


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