Kelly Garriott Waite's Blog, page 7

How to Dismantle a House

The old farmhouse was sided in pine. It leaned...just a bit...to the right. Six months ago when they'd first looked at this place, the real estate agent had said it was an eyesore, interfering with the beauty of the pretty little farmhouse at the top of the hill. Tish and Paul had ignored her and stepped inside, Paul making excited plans and sketching out blueprints in the dusty air.

"You know your father wanted to turn this into his workshop," Tish says now, running a hand across the old boards, the wood weathered and grey.

Timmy nods and bites his lip. "You ready?"

No. "Yes."

"You sure you want to...?"


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Dreaming of Possibilities

I just finished a book about Harlan and Anna Hubbard, a couple who chose to live a simple life on the banks of the Ohio River. Written by Harlan, Payne Hollow details how the Hubbards lived their day-to-day lives: building their home mainly from scraps offered by the river and the woods; foraging, gardening and raising goats for food; chopping wood; canning; doing laundry by hand.

Harlan has this to say about their choice:

"To buy bread and coffee, beans and bacon from the store and pay for such inferior provender...does not appeal to us at all. We catch fish for our own eating, get all our living by as direct means as possible, that we may be self-sufficient and avoid contributing to the ruthless mechanical system that is destroying the earth" (page 162).


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Tasting the Sun

Miles Snyder clicks on the email and frowns. "Sorry, Milo, but we need you in town over Christmas. Business is booming!" Miles sighs and closes the email. Shit. Being in town over the holidays means being in town for the company party.

Miles hates parties, hates having to blah blah blah his way through the buffet line, trying to recall the names of spouses, picking up a little of this and a little of that with dainty silver tongs, hoping to God he doesn't spill something or that his entire plate doesn't tip over with the weight of the pretty little hors d'oeuvres balanced thereon: Greasy olives. Cubes of cheese impaled upon frilled toothpicks. Pigs in a blanket. Stale croissants wrapped around thick slices of ham, a disgrace, he thinks, to the simple elegance of the croissant.

His mouth waters, as he recalls the trip he made to Paris, right after college. The hostels. The melamine bowls full of tepid cocoa. Crusty bread and marmalade. Apricots and coffee. Croissants that melted in his mouth.

Paris. Three months of good food, good wine and good painting.

He turns his attention to the spreadsheet on the monitor. But he can't deny that it's there: While he lines up numbers in a column, arranging them just so, getting them to agree to work together and paint a flattering, if not entirely accurate, picture of the company, it is there, in the background, thrumming: The blues and the oranges. The pinks and those lovely, lovely yellows. Miles loves color. Miles loves paint.

He gets along moderately well with numbers. But he's never actually tasted one.



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Freely Given and Eternally Kept

A female cardinal sits in the branches of my magnolia tree niggling at something—next year's flowers or a bit of this year's fruit, suddenly exposed. She turns upside down in order to reach her treasure before fluttering her wings to right herself again.

Small buds adorn the branches, promises neatly bundled and held tight until spring. Like a kid awaiting Christmas, I'm anxious to see the tree in bloom: It will be my first spring in this house.

On Saturday, I went to the fabric store to get some thread and elastic to finish the pajamas I'd promised my children and husband. This promise of pajamas was made in a weak moment, brought on by the feel of soft flannel beneath my fingers and the vision of what it could become. But I am not a seamstress of any note, unless you note the errors that I make.



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Raindrop

If rain held color, taste and smell, each drop would be a memory of you. But shattered raindrops run like tears and your image slowly blurs, like chalk paintings washed away in spring.

This was written for this week's Trifecta Writing Challenge. We were to do a 33 word freewrite.

Waiting

The precipitation was more ice than rain. Snow threatened. Ted pressed a hand to the window.

"Watching for Santy Claus?"

Ted wheeled around. Shelia. Antlers on her head. A bracelet of bells that jingled as she reached for his wrist, searching for a pulse.

"How much time have I got?"

"I ain't the doctor, honey. Ain't even a nurse."

"Will I last until Christmas?"


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Perspective

Twenty-four degrees for the high today. In our house, where there's no insulation, the cold finds a way in through the cracks in the walls and around the windows. We learned quickly, this year, to dress in layers. To wear scarves inside. To gather in one room, beneath quilts and comforters, waiting for the space heater to work its magic.

We're cranky and irritated, cooped up, all of us, in one room with two energetic dogs and a cat. We need to get out.

We bundle up in hats, scarves, boots and gloves; clip a leash on one of the dogs; and head for the woods.

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Beacon Hill

"I left Beacon Hill when I was three." She laughs. "I can barely recall."

He prods. "What do you remember? Tell me one thing."

"I remember the robins clinging to the trees."

He smiles, encouraging. Gentle. "One thing more."


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Red Flash

I saw the sky was painted grey;
raining tears of white.


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Superhero

Well, I'm not too sure that an introvert would really make the best choice for a superhero, do you? I mean, can you picture Superman holed up in his room reading books? Captain America knitting and thinking about life? Thor, for God's sake, refusing a dinner date?


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