mist

Franklin and I usually don't go for our morning walk this early. It was lightly misting, and the cloud cover must have kept the temperatures warmer than the previous couple of nights. The street lights in the townlet date back to the 30s or 40s and they don't really light up the street as much as provide a pool of light at certain spots, so that one can see that the road is curving. No unnatural orange glow, like that in DC, where public lighting is as much a safety measure as it is a driving aid.

In the townlet there are no curbs, and in many places there are small grassy culverts for rain run-off. With such a narrow road, it's important to be able to see it. These are not lanes for speeding. About three miles away is the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, and on racing days one hears the whine of the machines speeding down and around the oval track. But here, we are forced to go slower. And to those who don't, they often get yelled at by walkers with a "slow down."

No cars, speeding or otherwise, this morning. Up on a hill about ten or twelve feet above the road sits a white Georgian house that is empty. Sitting on the crest of the hill, there is a couple of acres of land. Tall trees and lawn. There was a real estate auction on Saturday, but I have not heard if it sold. The auctioneer's sign is gone. For 40 years, a couple lived in the house. They recently moved out to an assisted living apartment. Neighbors always like to chat about empty houses. How much is it worth. Is the price too high? What does it need? This house, built in the first wave of houses here, in the 1920s, only has one bathroom on the first floor. I must have heard that mentioned twenty times. But it is useful information for our informal games of fantasy house remodeling, that game in which we think about what we would do with the place, how much it would cost, what should happen to make it livable.

Houses are like theater stages. We move in and put up our sets, infused with our smells, and our books and pictures, furniture, and all the stuff we gather around us, some inherited, others gifts, and other acquired. This is our life. And we forget how temporary this all is. For forty years (or in probability a much shorter time) we produce our comedies and dramas. Our house. It's ours, and it could never look any other way than this, with our family written on its very walls. Our houses display our very essence, whether that is dreams for something else or contentment with what we have. Early in life we are taught that home ownership is the American dream, and for the most part, it is a good one.

Walking further past the Georgian, I see another house, built in the 1950s, also on a crest, but this time on the other side of the hill. Neighbors jokingly refer to it as the Frank Lloyd Wright house. He didn't design it but supposedly an architect who studied under him did. It is a modern house, partly low to the ground with a big glass and stone box living room that is two stories high. A couple lived there until the late 90s. Then somebody tried to repair it but ended up abandoning it. Now another neighbor who is very good at remodeling has bought it and is working on it. Even in a state of despair, with overgrown trees and plants, this house had such a warm and arresting look about it. It has a flat roof and that was the salient fact repeated over and over. The roof leaked, and everybody has an opinion on flat roofs and their leaking.

We get home and it is still dark. I feed animals, and start the day, fulfilling my part in the production at our house.