7:17 PM |
My house has had many incarnations. It was originally built in the 18th century by a family by the name of Weed. In the 1950's, what was left of the brick building was razed almost to the springhouse and a concrete block hunting box was built. It became an evergreen nursery. The owners' name was Bloom. For a gardener like me, moving from the Weeds to the Blooms was a happy omen. Before I bought the house, now called Fernwood, it had been adapted by a connoisseur of fine Early American furniture to be a gallery for his pieces. He lived like we all wished we did, with only a few pieces of furniture, a few pieces of clothing, and blissful calm.
This remarkable man added a modest kitchen, and scoured New England for an authentic 18th Century door. Another one was sourced for the front of the house. Both have big brass and iron lock boxes with ten inch keys, the ones that look like drawings of keys. When I first moved in, I'd lock the door and tuck the key into the car console, feeling very smug about living in such a manner. Over time, it began to be a pain, and I was afraid I'd lose it. What locksmith could take care of that? And the horror of breaking through the door. But that was before I figured out that I never had to lock it anyhow. Now I lock the door when I'll be away for longer than a few days. The key gets stuck up on the beam of the overhang at the entrance. I have to stay inside to reach it because the kitchen floor is about six inches higher than the lawn, and that gives me almost the height I need. The problem is, I have to reach not only up, but out. I often stumble, and am glad it isn't on my face.
Today was to be the big day. Woody was coming home with me. We have six inches of slush on the ground. My driveway is gravel, and the ground is both saturated and frozen. As you approach the road, there is a swoopy lip at the top of the hill. You can't gain momentum and blow through it because you can't see the traffic coming in either direction, not that there's any traffic, but just in case.
I tried and tried and tried. I tried first gear. I tried four-wheel in my pickup. As I would get to the top, the vehicles had minds of their own, and shimmied from side to side. So, reverse. Well, that's just as bad, so now I'm stuck partially down my driveway with stone walls on either side of me. I tried to just put it in neutral and let it slide down, but the slush held it in, and the progress was only to fishtail. I became a prisoner in my own driveway.
I was afraid to leave the car there because it's getting colder and all the ruts will ice over. Slowly, slowly I backed down, with literally inches between the side doors and the stone walls. Then I had to unpack the car and bring it all inside. Well, to bring it inside, I had to reach the key, and as I toppled over, all my things went into, you guessed it, six inches of white frozen Margarita.
I'm pissed, and I miss Woody, and I miss my imaginary boyfriend.