About a House
K drove me to the more reserved side of Nathiagali on Saturday. I could always spot the tin roof-tops and manicured lawns from across the Governor House trail, and wonder about these merry little homes, in their content geography. We took the road less trodden, debating whether a jackal or mountain lion would chance on our path. Onwards we went, and on the shoulder of the road laid four houses in no particular order, a joint-custody pond, and a sheep tied to a lamppost, munching on the vegetation and pulling at its shackles, both in turn.
And then there is was, the Mr. Carson of this tiny village.
There was something about this stone-faced house. I told K I wanted this derelict, grey mansion with its weathered wood panels and its wrought-iron gate, and its peeling exterior. The house had a personality, a presence that shadowed the rest of the neighborhood. It was once grandiose, and still had the look of something strong and Once Was.
Limp branches pushed out of the patches of green. Flashes of purple plumage in between the flowerbeds. Window-frames turning orange with rust and seasons. Its gate chipped at the bottom, where years of melted snow had crawled up and gnawed at the wood. The wood panels rotting into blackness, lending a Notre Dame feel. An unassuming attic shelved atop the house, beckoning for its quiet and its views.
All it needed was a splattering of paint, a cement mixing tray and an owner with a love of gardening.
This could be mine someday, I tell K.
And in case you don't believe me:
K drove me to the more reserved side of Nathiagali on Saturday. I could always spot the tin roof-tops and manicured lawns from across the Governor House trail, and wonder about these merry little homes, in their content geography. We took the road less trodden, debating whether a jackal or mountain lion would chance on our path. Onwards we went, and on the shoulder of the road laid four houses in no particular order, a joint-custody pond, and a sheep tied to a lamppost, munching on the vegetation and pulling at its shackles, both in turn.
And then there is was, the Mr. Carson of this tiny village.
There was something about this stone-faced house. I told K I wanted this derelict, grey mansion with its weathered wood panels and its wrought-iron gate, and its peeling exterior. The house had a personality, a presence that shadowed the rest of the neighborhood. It was once grandiose, and still had the look of something strong and Once Was.
Limp branches pushed out of the patches of green. Flashes of purple plumage in between the flowerbeds. Window-frames turning orange with rust and seasons. Its gate chipped at the bottom, where years of melted snow had crawled up and gnawed at the wood. The wood panels rotting into blackness, lending a Notre Dame feel. An unassuming attic shelved atop the house, beckoning for its quiet and its views.
All it needed was a splattering of paint, a cement mixing tray and an owner with a love of gardening.
This could be mine someday, I tell K.
And in case you don't believe me:
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