middleblog-a suburban babble brook book

New England Spring

New England's moods flow across her face easily.  This morning, it was grey and chilly. Then it rained. Now, the sun shines warmly on the soil; woodpeckers tap their insistent beats in the forest, Spirit and Catrick the cats drowse in the sun, cardinals squeak, and a great hawk sailed so close I could have counted his pinions, if I wanted.  The hawks worry me with the cats, but hopefully the pen will keep my kitty safe.

Yesterday, we looked at an old farmstead for sale just down the street.  The house is a curious, warm hodgepodge of styles, from a low ceilinged basement room with warped, worn, broad heart of pine floors that, as the real estate agent observed, is strongly reminiscent of an old sailor's tavern, to a bright, gracious formal parlor with a marble fireplace and pocket doors.  Old staircases lead nowhere; the window panes are rippled with age.  Despite its age, and months of being unoccupied, the house is free of must or stinks.  It is a warm, inviting space, full of sunshine from windows that look out onto a gently rolling pasture, with a small, clean pond in its center, bursting with the rustic, charming character unique to New England's grande dames of architecture.  I think I'd give my eyeteeth to move cat and baggage down the street, there to take up chicken farming. goat raising, barn sales out of the chicken barn in the driveway.  The property is blessedly devoid of neighbors, and, as it borders a ditch on one side, and wetlands on two others, it is likely to remain that way.