Page 39 of Pieces of Ash
Sweat.
Dried roses.
Good news.
Bad news.
Love.
Life.
This house—this instantly sacred place—reaches into my heart and squeezes, at once sharing its past and inviting me into its present.
Opening my eyes, I sigh with a longing so deep and painful, it makes my vision blurry with tears.Here, I will be safe, I think to myself, wondering how such words dare to bubble up to the top of my consciousness when I barely understand their meaning.
But lives have been loved here and shared here, broken and mended, lived and lost. And now my life, small though it is, willbe a part of it too. There is quiet comfort in the idea. Fellowship. Solidarity.
The walls are butter yellow, and the trim is bright white in the late-morning sunlight. Dark wood floors gleam beneath red-patterned Persian throw rugs of various sizes, and attractive pieces of country furniture are artfully placed around the living room. In a large brass vase on the coffee table there is a red silk flower arrangement that is so lifelike, I am almost tricked into believing it’s real.
“I love it,” I say.
“Well, thanks, love. I renovated and decorated it myself.” Jock chuckles. “It’s old, but special, right?”
Yes.“How old is it?”
“My great-grandfather bought the land in 1919, when he returned from World War I. He was a banker in New York City, but he married his sweetheart when he returned home, and she wanted a summer place. Nothing grand. Just something out of the city where she could cool off in the summer. Everyone else headed for the Catskills across the river, but my old gramps wanted something different. He chose Vermont instead.”
“And the house?” I ask, still frozen in the doorway.
“A Sears, Roebuck Vallonia bungalow that he bought from a catalog,” said Jock. “It was a popular model in California back in the 1920s. Gramp saw one outside of Sacramento where he was stationed during the war.”
“He bought the house…from a catalog?”
“Mm-hm. Filled out a mail-order form. Sent in a money order. Found some local men to take care of the construction.Voilà.”
“Amazing,” I say, looking around the eclectic front room that spans the width of the old house.
“It was a popular model for young couples because it was one-floor living until children came along. Living room, diningroom, kitchen, bath, and bedroom all on the first floor. And upstairs, the layout allowed for three bedrooms or a big, open space for storage.”
I slide my eyes to Jock, eyebrows raised. “What did your great-grandparents opt for?”
“The three bedrooms,” he confirms with a grin. “My great-aunt Diane, my other great-aunt, Caroline, and my grandfather, George, all grew up here.”
“Your father too?” I ask, gingerly touching a fur blanket folded carefully on the back of a cream couch decorated with bright red peonies.
“Mm-hm. He bought it from my grandfather for twenty dollars in 1968.”
“Only twenty dollars?”
“Family deal.”
“And you?”
“I inherited it when my dad passed. Did a lot of renovations. Gigi and I lived here for a while, but it’s pretty isolated. Almost an hour to Burlington, where our second gallery is located, and a lot longer in the snow.”
“Not to mention, there are no good martinis out here in the sticks,” lamented Gus. “Not even a little ol’ country bar. You have to drive to Shelburne to get a drinky-drink.”
I shake my head at Gus before grinning at Jock. “So, including you, four generations of Sourises have lived here.”
