This little house was built in the sixties. A young family lived there, and it served them well. Later, it became a wise investment for them… a rent house providing years of income.
This little house had a new owner. Good intentions. Remodeling in mind. Work began. Horrible habits in the way. Plans sideswiped. House in foreclosure.
This little house was sold again. The couple needed a project, and tender loving care was poured into every board, every tile, every gallon of paint. The place was filled with laughter and hard work. Once again, the house seemed to be smiling.
This little house was just a little bit too little. Newlyweds became the proud owners. New dreams lived within the walls. But dreams were replaced with nightmares. Misery took up residence. Every nook and cranny was filled with unpleasant reminders.
This little house got another facelift. Fresh paint, elbow grease. Different recipes cooked in the kitchen. New music filling the air.
I know this little house. I imagine there’s one like it on every block in this town. Wishing laughter bounced off the walls of every little house up and down these streets. Sad that it doesn’t.
Sandy keeps an online journal at her website www.field-days.com. E-mail her at firstname.lastname@example.org.