I am sitting in what we call the “green” room in our house here in Sherman. It has green wallpaper – hence the name – and is reminiscent to us of another Victorian we owned and renovated pre-Los Angeles – also with dark green wallpaper. The fan is whirring, the lamps are casting soft amber light and the curtains are rising and falling as a breeze catches them through the open windows. A clock ticks on the table across from me, and there is not one more sound to be heard at this hour of the evening. Not one car going by out front, not one Junebug bumping against the window screens. The clock is now chiming, signaling midnight, except I know the clock is wrong. It is 11:01 pm.
I have had a happy day of work and then visiting. We worked on the house across the street – clearing and moving furniture – until noon, then we had a friend arrive for a visit until 3. At that point, we jumped into the car and drove the 25 miles over to Bonham where we met a childhood friend and his brother, who are selling their parents late 1800’s home. We enjoyed poking around in the house and also pursuing the lovely yard. From there, we came back home and met up with my ex-sister-in-law, who brought her granddaughter for dinner. We caught up on all the family news, and spent time just enjoying each other’s company. She, after all, was an official part of my family for 25 years, and will remain an unofficial member for the rest of our lives, as least from my point-of-view. Now, I’m sitting here in this lovely room, dutifully completing my 20 minutes a day of writing, only occasionally dozing off out of sheer tiredness.
Ray just walked through the room, rustled my hair, then said, “It’s nice here.”
Amen to that, and good-night.
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