When I was a little girl, we lived in house made of pale gray stone. It was the only stone house on our street. All of the others were made of red brick. The front and back flagstone porches were connected by a cobbled path, and the whole property was encircled by a white picket fence. Yes, a white picket fence. Really. Ivy and morning glory trailed up the outer walls like dark green veins It was our very own country cottage in the middle of the urban jungle. I wonder who lives there now. Do they love it as much as I did? Oh, how I still sometimes yearn for that house!
Our small back yard contained three huge lilac bushes, two Japanese cherry trees and a few other things that frankly, paled in comparison and don’t bear mentioning. After each winter’s thaw, I’d wait with excited anticipation for them to bud. When they finally did bloom, the profusion of color and intoxicating scent were a feast for my young and tender senses. The yard became a fairyland of lavender and pink, and I was the resident fairy princess who reigned supreme. All too soon the flowers would fade and fall, covering the ground with a soft, plush, pastel carpet that was perfect for lying on as I pondered the meaning of life – and waited for the roses. read more >>
