always makes me want a big old east coast house with white columns and a chair on the porch and two ears of corn tied to the outside light on a wide wide street with trees and trees and red and yellow trees where a little car could drive up and let my family out. they could climb the two stairs to the front yard and the three stairs to the front door. i could take their coats and put them in the guest bedroom. bustle bustle bustle...wine and juice and jazz and "did you get your hair cut?" and "would you like a cracker to tide you over? the turkey is going to be another twenty minutes at least (i know how you get when you're hungry)" and "how is school?" and "do you like your new job, apartment, assignment...", "how was the trip?", "do not eat all of the pickles", and "what are you reading, making, listening to?"
and in this sweet house people listen to the answers...
it makes me want a big long table and old dishes to serve things in, and an oven for roasting and windows for fogging and a fireplace for poking and a rug to play jenga on, chairs to tell jokes on and guitars in the corner for anyone who wants to play. floppy place cards and just the right silverware and kids mixed in with grownups. and if you looked under the table you could see feet moving and restless at different speeds, to different degrees, some swinging and some swaying and some still, and their hands, the same...
gold and green and burgundy and mustard yellow. tweeds and tartans and wool. stockings and corduroys and brown leather, warm rosy-cheeked conversation. laughter and the scraping of knives and forks on china...a long walk after dinner and a nice chat on the porch for everyone else...
maybe not next year, but some year.
and this morning i stalked through the wet leaves and thought of these things and was just thankful for the trees and the river and brown leather and corduroy.
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