Not without a huge sigh (part uncertainty and part regret), I disembarked from my car and just stood, looking. The house was surrounded by trees on both sides, in addition to the long lane I had just trekked. But some wild daisies sprinkled amidst the long grasses lent me comfort. A meadow of what appeared to be weeds of different sorts was visible if I leaned to peer around the side of the building, which I did. Weeds. How apt.

The house, itself, well, not really a house – I don’t know what to call it; was more than a shed, less than a respectable cabin – was fronted with a sagging porch with four steps ascending. I took the challenge, and, as I did, heard some scurrying underneath. I had company without even sending housewarming invitations! Lovely.

I fished the key from my pocket and unlocked the front door. It was sturdy! I took the win and stepped inside. Remarkably enough, it was furnished with decent furniture, clearly from past generations.

I blew dust from a side table holding a lamp and the lamp wobbled until I grabbed it. It seemed a nice piece, perhaps even valuable in its day. I would hate to be the owner that broke it. Then I wondered how many owners there had been: if I was the second after an original or near the end of a long line of proprietors. I wandered through the rooms: a living room, kitchen, bedroom, and even a small bathroom (I was pleasantly surprised, though held no certainty that it worked). Beyond the kitchen, to the back of the house, was a sleeping porch, complete with a swinging bed held to the rafters by sturdy chains. My eyes scanned the mattress full of acorns.

Dusk was creeping over the yard by the time I brought in my belongings. There had been more to explore than at first glance. For one thing, there was a root cellar. I know! I saved my examination of it for daylight when I could clear the spiderwebs  with greater assurance of seeing whether the spiders were elsewhere.

In my inspection of the bedroom, I had literally stumbled into what sounded like a hollow place in the wall near the head of the bed. I scraped the bed across the floor in order to get a closer look. With a little effort, I broke through the false part and found a compartment which held my interest as well as, it appeared, things from a past owner.

I pulled out my sturdy flashlight and spent my evening reading the papers I had found. By the time my eyes were gritty with sleep, I knew my new house was not the tumbledown shack it appeared to be.

to be continued . . .

Image: Pinterest

When I clicked, it was more of out of curiosity than intent. Then I decided I was hungry, and fixed myself a scone with grape preserves. That, of course, needed a cup of coffee to go with it, giving me even more time to ponder the possibilities from the admittedly vague listing on my computer. I don’t know if they do that for you, but scones always put me in an agreeable mood. By the time I’d followed possibility after peculiarity after potential, and after I’d polished off both scone and coffee, I’d contacted my bank, signed some papers, and become the proud owner of a house sight unseen.

Oh sure. Like you’ve never done something on impulse!

Don’t mind my defensiveness. The jitters I get when I think of what I’ve done could send me into the next decade, not that those years look any more promising than the ones everyone is bemoaning this year. Or last year. Or even the year before that. Maybe I should stop counting.

Anyway, that original, innocent click on the listing on my computer led me to a weekend trip outside of my usual paths. In addition to jitters, I was also a bit excited. Me! A homeowner! Visions of cute cottages with herb gardens and hunting lodges surrounded by bendy pines filled my imagination.

I rechecked the directions, and turned onto a long dirt lane. Yes, I have GPS. I’m not 60. I’m 27 and I know a thing or two. But my cell service stopped working about 20 miles back. Fortunately, the guy at the last gas station assured me with a creepy sort of smile that cell service is spotty in these parts, so after I’d gassed up and before starting out again, I’d taken advantage of what I hadn’t known would be the last of the reassuring, if not somewhat annoying, voice telling me which way to turn, and had written down directions I’d pulled up from a phone map service. Did I say the lane was long? And dirt? Because I feel like that’s something you need to know. At least I think I do.

Finally I pulled up to the front of my new house, which was neither cottage nor hunting lodge. And as I sat behind my steering wheel peering at the structure in front of me, I thought to myself that I should’ve sworn off my love of scones long ago.

to be continued . . .

Images: jonathan-larson-SKzPfvo351U-unsplash-scaled.jpg

Rain pelted the window as the wind shook it. He pulled on some woolen socks, scraped a kitchen chair out from the table, and picked up the pocket watch. It had been handed down for six generations and had landed in his possession when his father died.

He didn’t need it. He had a watch. It was a Tissot. No Rolex, granted, but not bad for an accountant. He’d thought of getting cash for the heirloom at a pawnshop, but then had thought better. He examined the pocket watch, turning it over, and thought of family members who had owned it before him. Most of them had kept it hidden away in a drawer, as far as he knew. His family wasn’t one for following each other’s dreams; only their own. Besides, he chuckled to himself, who would want to be an accountant? But it held interest for him, and interest was good in oh so many ways.

He ran his thumb over the words in pretty script at the bottom of the watch: World’s Fair Chicago 1893. What the Great Chicago Fire didn’t accomplish, the World’s Fair was designed to finish. What a morose thought! Still. Was a sullen truth worse than a happy lie? He knew he wasn’t alone in thinking that despite the story of Mrs. O’Leary’s cow, it wasn’t likely that a kicked-over lantern would have burned down over three miles of a city. Poor Mrs. O’Leary: living out her life in relative reclusion what with the notoriety of the story! But, he thought, a fire can destroy as surely without a conclusive origin as with one. And destruction is useful for someone who wants to build back better. Yes, what the Chicago fire didn’t do, a World’s Fair might. He scolded himself for thinking it. It was a nice-looking watch, after all.

He pulled an old book from his bookshelf and paged through it, not for the first time. His eyes drifted to the part about the Midway Plaisance, but despite it’s name, he didn’t feel pleased. Those at the very top of the Fair’s planning, the ones with the money, said they were celebrating the past, while in reality planning a future the unsuspecting attendees wouldn’t have believed. Albert Pike and his green ink would have approved. But he felt no attraction to the glorious accounts of the spectacle. He was not impressed, and he knew why. Over the years he had read more than he wished he had read. It had changed his initial curiosity to distaste. Oh yes. He knew why he felt no attraction. He didn’t worship their god.

He rose and went to the window. The rain had stopped and even the little droplets from the storm had found their home at the bottom of the outside sill. The Fair that changed America. Give them bread and circuses! People still wanted a progressive utopia with all of its moving parts, and those who had planned it all long ago would have been pleased to hear of it. He appreciated one thing – a very big thing: Nikola Tesla’s alternating current. History claimed Tesla’s lights illuminated the Fair as the first rays of Arcturus began to show themselves. He added Arcturus to the short list. He could appreciate a very old star such as that. Stars, after all, were time keepers, too. And light in the darkness was grand whether through electricity or nature or Spirit. Yes, there was always something to appreciate among the detritus of history.

He felt the weight of the pocket watch in his hand. And time. He could appreciate – even value – time. He stared into space. Light broke darkness with time. He needed time. The whole world needed time. Precious, precious time. He started over to his desk drawer to stow the heirloom as generations before him had done, then paused, and slipped the watch into his pocket instead.