It's a Wonderful Life

I have a little house.  It is kind of a box.  It has six rooms with a kitchen and bathroom attached.  The floor in the front rooms slants away from the floor in the back rooms.  When I sit with my back against the couch, my legs go downhill.  I think the house was once filled with water and faced with the problem of how to drain itself.  The walls are all unsure about which way they are supposed to tilt, so they do as they choose and try not to match the angle of their windows too closely.

Three girls live in this house with me.  And, together, we have undertaken to make this house a home.

I am Mary Bailey in my mind.  I can hear the deep celestial voice narrating my life, and see her athletically wallpapering as I brush paint onto my own walls.  It fits, since she is my inspiration for everything.

I think I may have reached a manic state of homemaking.  Every morning, I brief the cadets (ie, Hutton and Oatis, my roommates) on the day's activities.

"Did you see the grass outside?! The Round Up worked! Today we are planting the garden! And we need to finish painting and buy mulch and get curtain rods and light bulbs! and oh I almost forgot! the kitchen smells funny so we need candles! and can we get some furniture for the dining room because I hate it right now! and we need to do the dishes also and clean out our windows and do we have a hammer?!?"

Of course, only one or two items from the morning's list actually get accomplished by evening. But each day, a bright change is felt and seen.  My room painted.  A curtain up with twinkle lights.  The windows cleaned outside the kitchen.  Wall hangings going up.  Blankets appearing.  A piece of furniture rearranged.  Added.  Each change is a beacon raised for beauty, a buffer against chaos and dirt and darkness and, of course, ants.

As any good thing, it takes time and I want to jump ahead of myself.  But as the time slowly creeps along, the house not only transforms visibly, but begins to take on that unmistakable, though invisible, mark.  THIS IS THE WORK OF MY HANDS, it says.

This is my 320 Sycamore.

I did NOT take this picture crooked.
Yes, the door is THAT crooked.