The log
cabin was circa 1729, the main house, 1853. Nothing worked. Not the
Jerry-rigged electrical systems, certainly not the pluming. The
heating was sketchy and dangerous. But working on “K” Street in
downtown DC, had me canned up in a suit for which this place provided
the opener. Five acres of wilderness on the edge of bedroom
communities with houses packed tighter than a Japanese subway. After
a long commute home, sometimes only inches at a time on the beltway,
I would pull into that front yard, step out of the car as it started
to cool...small popping sounds peppering the layers of desperate love
songs sung by a thousand cicada choruses, and I could pee in any direction.
Exhaling the city and carbon monoxide, inhaling clean air scented by
the twin Cedars that shared hammock duty on the lawn, I would turn
toward the faint sound of music coming from inside the house, knowing
that all I cared about most in this world was in there. Carla and the
girls, pink from hot baths, immersed in their own world of children's
books and craft projects, all of which would be dropped to the floor
when I walked inside. You would think it was Christmas morning and I
was Santa... but they were the ones giving me presents, presents that
for me were, well, everything.
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