We've decided to sell our lake house. And by "we," I mean Husband. I'm not opposed, really, since we hardly ever go there, but now that I have to pack up and walk out the door, I'll miss it.
The house is only 25 minutes from home, but it just seems like there is always some reason not to go, or just to go for one night at a time. Husband declared from day one there would be no cats in that house, so we can't just go there for a week without my having to drive home twice a day to feed the furries. When Eustacia lived at home, marching band kept us away on fall weekends; my graphics work was done on my monster Mac at home, and my horn playing was done at home. With all of those interferences, finding time to go to the lake more than occasionally became a conundrum.
This is hardly the time to be selling a house a lot of people would buy as a retreat and not their main residence, so it's been on the market for months and months. But now, just in time for spring, we've got a buyer, and we're now working through the details—inspections, minor repairs, well testing.
Last week, I had to meet the water softener repair guy at the house, and he gave me a three-hour window. You know how that works. He will never arrive at the earliest possible time, so I planned on spending the full three hours at the house in the middle of the afternoon. It was a lovely sunny day, so I opened the front door and the back door, which are aligned to allow for a cross breeze. I made a pot of coffee, wrote a short story, read at my Alexander McCall Smith novel, fiddled around with a keyboard a house guest had set up—he's a composer, and took my camera for a quick walk.
The back of the house has a full-length deck with nautical-looking ropes as rails. With the sun finally shining after a harsh winter, these are the shadows I saw, a welcomed sight:
The original builder used local stone to make the place look naturally rustic, and here is a sign of spring beside some large stones along the foundation—they are wonderfully mossy and rough-hewn:
And down by the dock, where the water calmly lapped against the stones, and the sun shimmered on the ripples, this is the scene:
And finally here is the sound and movement—isn't there something about watching the movement of water that can wash away any amount of stress? If the health care debate had taken place at my lake house (instead of on Facebook, as it seemed to be batted back and forth yesterday), I think people would not have been so bombastic in their remarks. They would have set up their lawn chairs beside the dock, leaned back, closed their eyes and let the warmth of the sun and the sound of the water act like a drug, one that would make people more congenial than they would be in a stuffy enclosed space where their self-importance might be allowed to fester. Just a theory.