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I drive down the rock road to our house, crossing the rain-swollen streams in my path, and up the driveway and halfway there I see– My house. My house! With dormers! It’s starting to look more and more like a real house. And I can’t believe it sometimes because it is so pretty, so soft and cozy. I think it whispers to me, Come home, I’m waiting..
I see electric candle lights in the dormer windows. Rocking chairs on the porch. Overflowing pots of flowers on the steps. A little kitchen garden to the side where I can grow herbs and tomatoes. Me inside, taking fresh bread out of the oven. Want to come over? That would be lovely!
It’s exciting to see the siding and roofing going on, see how the colors we chose fit together. This is a metal roof, which I’m also really excited about. The dormer in the foreground here is in Princess’s room. This is where she’ll have a windowseat. The middle dormer is closed, a false dormer–it’s over the staircase and for structural reasons couldn’t be opened. The dormer on the far side goes into the living room, where it will make a sort of skylight. (See below.)
I’ll need a ladder to get to my candle light in this window, and to get to the middle, closed dormer, I’ll have to go out on the roof. (Electric plugs are being placed inside all the dormers.) Well, as you can see, I went out onto the roof yesterday to take the picture above! I’m just like Princess–crazy!!!! Or, just really crazy for this house.
Today I’m working on revisions for the as-yet-untitled Haven 3 and restraining myself from running out to see the house again. (What if it needs me? What if it’s lonely?) Our farm is only a couple of miles away from the farm where I live now so it is a constant temptation. What about you? What are you doing this cold late autumn day?
I’ll get you a cup of something hot and you can sit down and tell me.
Posted by Suzanne McMinn | Permalink
Seriously. She is going to be the death of me.
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"It was a cold wintry day when I brought my children to live in rural West Virginia. The farmhouse was one hundred years old, there was already snow on the ground, and the heat was sparse-—as was the insulation. The floors weren’t even, either. My then-twelve-year-old son walked in the door and said, “You’ve brought us to this slanted little house to die." Keep reading our story....
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