spoken for

I can’t sleep.

I’m not sure why, but I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the house that my great-grandparents owned. Maybe it’s because I dreamed about it a few weeks ago. And then it didn’t help that my sister-in-law posted some photos of it in her Flickr account (by the way, thanks in advance, Morgan, for letting me use your photos, haha). ;-) Either way, I’ve been thinking about it. And yes, we all know how nostalgic I can be. Get over it.

I can remember every inch of that land.

There’s a long driveway, and it’s rock. But not the kind of rock that we have here, not that white dusty stuff. It’s smooth rock. Not so dusty. Brown, red, black rock. The driveway was long, but not so long you couldn’t see the house from the main road. There weren’t any trees in the front yard, except off to the side, only Grandma’s hanging black kettle that she planted flowers in. To the right of the driveway, there were two mimosa trees, decent-sized ones at that. I loved those trees.

Further along was a little shed, then a propane tank. Often, in the spring, there would be a nest of baby birds under the cap of the tank. You could hear them chirping as you walked by. Sometimes Grandpa would give us a little peek at them, but we never bothered them. After that was Grandpa’s dog pens. When I was younger, he had several beagles. He loved his beagles. I remember one older dog who had puppies a couple of times, Queenie. She was my favorite.
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