Memorial Day Weekend, heralded as the start of summer. It brings to mind long, lazy days spent in a hammock or row boat. it makes me want to be in a place where I can hear the cry of loons, the breeze sighing through the pines overhead, and the water lapping at the shore. Where a good book, cold drink and morning walks are the makings of a great day. Where at night a fire brightens the darkness below and the stars shine above. Both reflecting off the smooth water.
I noticed that an old house I have photographed in the past is now under deconstruction, and so, of course, I had to stop and investigate further. This room is the one behind the door on the cape, the oldest part of the structure. 
In my post back in 2015 (https://wordpress.com/post/becswindmill.wordpress.com/2880) I stopped by Asa’s house after seeing the barn get taken down. I had kept tabs on it since I first saw it 7 years back. Anyhow, this weekend was my chance, possibly the only one I would get, to see what the inside was like.
The first room felt more like a shed, yet had clearly been used as living space. The pink room was the next room I stepped into. The door in the pink room opens right onto the road, you can see the white line on the pavement outside the window. It makes me wonder how long it was just a path before it encroached on the house. Built in 1758 it must have been many years that passed. The pink room had the usual odd assortment of debris in it, plus a long dead raccoon which had clearly lost the battle.
The front hall showed just as much wear, and each room had sadly been visited by a teen with a can of spray paint and a lack of original thought. The floors were a bit spongy, the left behind dressers numerous. It felt more like a place that had been passed through by inhabitants than lived in for generations. There was the odd working in of indoor plumbing for bathrooms and kitchens. I make it a policy to never go in basements, and rarely upstairs, especially with spongy floors on the main level. But I doubt I would have found much of interest. The house was devoid of presence, just a shell of abandoned stuff no one cared enough to take or toss. The good news is the property, while it will come down, will not become a neighborhood of overpriced cookie cutter mansions. A beekeeper who pulled up as I was getting a full shot of the exterior said that he will be using the land for a nature/education area and store for his expanding beekeeping business! That seems to me to be a sign of progress in the right direction.
when the sheer joy of being alive and out in the world is more than enough.
What is it about a bridge that calls out to be crossed? Maybe it is the idea of venturing into something new, or the idea of leaving something no longer needed behind.
It looks like after several chilly damp weeks, with only an occasional bit of sun, that spring weather is going to be here to stay. It will mean dry walks in the evening, sun in the morning, lilac blossoms and much more. Of course it will also mean black flies and fully hydrated ticks, but I guess that is the price we pay.
Old houses draw me in, yet I always half expect to see a curtain twitch even if I know no one lives there anymore. It’s the eerie feeling of the windows gazing out mutely at me, trying to tell the story of the place that is slowly slipping away.
