The early morning sun promised a clear, comfortable day ahead.
Fifteen miles away, a
crew of house movers lifted and transferred a tired, dusty-red cottage from its
pillars onto a trailer. The Cottage awoke
from a long, abandoned slumber and turned its gaze inward. Another truck gathered the porch that had
been removed and set aside for moving purposes, and the cement pillars that
held the house up off the ground. Followed
by a pickup truck carrying mandated signage indicating a wide load ahead, they caravanned
out of the driveway, trundled up the county road to the highway, turned left
towards the west.
It was a cool, dewy
morning on Popcorn Road, like most fall days, except everyone was up a little
earlier than usual. This got all the animals’
attention as they wondered what was in it for them. Breakfast earlier than usual? A walk down to the river?
In the early days, as
the House on Popcorn Road began to take form and awaken, it remembered in
particular, a pair of working oxen that slept in a lean-to barn, nearby, alongside
their yoke and wagon. Bobby and Dan were
well looked after in the evenings when they’d be settled in and put up for the
night. Their feet were trim, coats brushed,
food and water stalls well managed.
Decades passed and the
House had seen surprising things. Model
Ts and trains among them. These days,
though, it was mostly cars, punctuated by an old black man on his little red, electric
scooter who would come calling from time to time.
On this morning, though, the House was basking in the smell of hot coffee and
toast, when it heard the crunching of gravel as the big truck entered its
driveway with a tired, anxious, dusty-red Cottage on its back!
Bounding off the dog beds,
barking and tumbling down the stairs, nails frantically and futilely scraping
the landing floor, braying, straining for purchase, hitting the turn, exploding
into a run for the back door, the House with a gentle heave, loosed a latch and
with a snick of the lock, shut the dog door, and the dogs skidded into a
pile.
Outside, the Cottage was
jacked up, I-beams inserted, and rolled onto remote-control dollies which transferred
the Cottage to its new location. Foundation
piers were measured, spaced, laid out, leveled, and the Cottage having never
been aloft before, held its breath. Slowly,
it was lowered and placed precisely on its foundation, and exhaled.
Quickly, a stack of
concrete blocks was assembled into a riser leading to the front door. Other men unloaded the porch and propped it
against the back of the house this time.
The crew took a break as the woman ascended the makeshift stairs, opened
the door, and stepped inside. The Cottage
froze itself into thoughtful silence.
What would she think of the purple walls, the pitted floor, the rough
old boards that had been shaped into trim, the flimsy bathroom door that gave
such little privacy, the faded curtains, the kitchen grease on the ceiling fan? Would the Cottage become a home again, or
what?
“I love it,” she whispered. The Cottage
exhaled and watched as the woman admired each room, talking of new paint
colors, new floors, and just as the Cottage was thinking, ‘But what about my
Porch?’ the woman said, ‘And a wraparound porch to catch the breeze.’ A thrill shivered through the walls and for
the first time since screwing its eyes shut as it left its old home, the Cottage
realized that outside, there was indeed a consistent, gentle breeze passing
through. Finally, the Cottage was out
from underneath trees and out in the open under the sky, sitting atop a little
rise, the best place from which to catch a prevailing wind. Looking out all its windows at one time, the
Cottage caught its breath. A
neighbor.
Engines were started and
the trucks began their crunchy retreat out the driveway. The goats and chickens and pigs settled
down. The dogs turned their thoughts to
breakfast. The cat came out from
underneath the bed. And the House on
Popcorn Road said to its new neighbor, “Good morning, and welcome! You’re going to love this place.”