I'm not doing it again this year, either. I miss it. My friends report their soaring word counts and the days pass and I see the dream passing away again. I hate November 3rds and 4ths more than any other days of the year when I am not doing the NaNo because at that point, I could realistically still catch up. I'm slated to have too many distractions this month. I certainly hope that excuse bears up.
Our house has been gutted to the studs and in some cases to the rafters. The plumber could not get it through his head that we needed for him to get the plumbing done before the tub came in so we could get on with other projects such as closing up the walls and ceilings and therefore the attic. The tub would have fit through the bathroom door. So for the past six weeks, nothing has happened. We bugged the plumber for the first three weeks. He came and prepared the plumbing for the tub and left. He is supposed to replumb the entire house with plastic rather than copper to prevent further leaks.
The magnificent tub--I hate it already. We had this amazing walk-in shower. I had no idea how amazing it was until we had to tear it out. It was solid cement. It could have been a safe room during a tornado. But, there was the feared black mold growing beneath it. So it had to go. My husband chipped most of it out bit by bit.
After doing all the good things a person ought to do before making a large purchase, I ordered a "home spa." I cut a check for more than I could conscience and sent it off with the expectation it would take five weeks. That would have been October 31st.
I will never order anything large from a distance again--even if it is better than anything I could buy locally. It isn't worth the worry! Now, six weeks later, the tub still has not arrived, the plumber still has not plumbed the house, the walls and ceilings are still open and it is highly likely I will not get to spend Christmas at home.
So, I didn't do the NaNoWriMo because I have my fingers crossed that I'll be laying tile and painting walls before the end of the month. If I don't, I'm going to be really angry at myself! I could have started the NaNo and, if the house just happened to progress to the point I could work, the NaNo could be put on ice. Ah, but I am an optimist turning pessimist!
Showing posts with label NaNo. Show all posts
Showing posts with label NaNo. Show all posts
Saturday, November 08, 2008
Thursday, November 01, 2007
"The Great Unraveling"
Today marks the beginning of the annual NaNoWriMo. It is the first time in three years that I haven't participated, if I don't. I have nothing, no idea. Ideas didn't get me anywhere for the past two years--last year less than the year before. I had a pretty decent idea last year, but the push to get words on the page derailed it and I had to force it forward very uncomfortably. My "critic" gets started and she just starts screaming! By the end of last years NaNo she was a raving lunatic.
Above is a potential title borrowed from an online friend on a forum. It intrigued me. There could be so many different directions to take it. One of the ideas I had, and I had considered this in past years, was to write a spoof on schism in TEC. Not this schism, but a fictitious one. And perhaps where I stumble is in my desire to write it so that all Episcopalians could get a chuckle out of it. Yes, all. Sometimes it helps us to laugh at ourselves.
My big stumbling block is that I try to think of a controversy, preferably based on scriptural interpretation of the two (or many) sides. I've thought of revisiting the old slavery controversy, but I would like to have the Internet discussions be a part of the process because I think the Internet has exacerbated what might have otherwise been a ripple in the life of most congregations. I've thought of using St. Paul's Epistle to the Romans, 13-15. Vegans would have a secure hold on the scriptural debates. And it could be funny because few of us care what our neighbor eats--except that it might cause a ruckus at a potluck. I had three or four more good ideas, but today is November 1st and panic has frozen my brain. I considered Womens Ordination, but it is still a hot topic in some circles. I thought about the Great Commandment because it seems to be so overlooked. Pacifism might actually be a good one! And I have some great ideas where the war mongers have found justification for their point of view. And, I thought about Balaam's Ass. I like that story. Can an ass talk?
I attempted to brainstorm this idea with my friends, but they shut me down before I even begin. They wouldn't listen long enough for me to get to the spoof concept and my dilemma. It doesn't matter if it goes nowhere. I haven't published a NaNoNovel yet!
At any rate, I thought that a great way to write it would be to divide the month of November into thirty days. Yeah, I know! That's already been done. But bear with me here. I thought I could peg out thirty days during the past four--it isn't going on five yet, is it?--years and I could write a spoof journal entry each day, a recollection of what occurred on that day. So simple! Aim for my 1667 words per day and VIOLA NaNoNovelDone!
Late edition: As I've gone through the day I have grown more and more fond of Balaams Ass. I really like it!~ And just think how many times I could use the word "ass". I've always thought there was a deficit of cuss words in my fiction.
Above is a potential title borrowed from an online friend on a forum. It intrigued me. There could be so many different directions to take it. One of the ideas I had, and I had considered this in past years, was to write a spoof on schism in TEC. Not this schism, but a fictitious one. And perhaps where I stumble is in my desire to write it so that all Episcopalians could get a chuckle out of it. Yes, all. Sometimes it helps us to laugh at ourselves.
My big stumbling block is that I try to think of a controversy, preferably based on scriptural interpretation of the two (or many) sides. I've thought of revisiting the old slavery controversy, but I would like to have the Internet discussions be a part of the process because I think the Internet has exacerbated what might have otherwise been a ripple in the life of most congregations. I've thought of using St. Paul's Epistle to the Romans, 13-15. Vegans would have a secure hold on the scriptural debates. And it could be funny because few of us care what our neighbor eats--except that it might cause a ruckus at a potluck. I had three or four more good ideas, but today is November 1st and panic has frozen my brain. I considered Womens Ordination, but it is still a hot topic in some circles. I thought about the Great Commandment because it seems to be so overlooked. Pacifism might actually be a good one! And I have some great ideas where the war mongers have found justification for their point of view. And, I thought about Balaam's Ass. I like that story. Can an ass talk?
I attempted to brainstorm this idea with my friends, but they shut me down before I even begin. They wouldn't listen long enough for me to get to the spoof concept and my dilemma. It doesn't matter if it goes nowhere. I haven't published a NaNoNovel yet!
At any rate, I thought that a great way to write it would be to divide the month of November into thirty days. Yeah, I know! That's already been done. But bear with me here. I thought I could peg out thirty days during the past four--it isn't going on five yet, is it?--years and I could write a spoof journal entry each day, a recollection of what occurred on that day. So simple! Aim for my 1667 words per day and VIOLA NaNoNovelDone!
Late edition: As I've gone through the day I have grown more and more fond of Balaams Ass. I really like it!~ And just think how many times I could use the word "ass". I've always thought there was a deficit of cuss words in my fiction.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Charm: 4th Increment
Herein lieth the end of the first chapter--the easiest part of the whole freakin' mess to post! ;)
###
“Don’t worry. I’ll be down in a minute. Of course, if you want to, you could just go on outside and wait for me there . . . if that makes you more comfortable.”
Claire said, “You don’t understand, Becca! Something made a noise downstairs. I hardly want to go through the downstairs to go outside.” Nervously, she crossed the landing again and looked down toward the main floor. Human or not, she wondered again and realized that she would be just as afraid whether it was human or ghost. If it were human ... what human?
“You could come up here?”
“Nah. I’ll just wait here for you.” Pausing, she looked down into the dark recesses of the house again, and then she added, as an afterthought, “How come in horror flicks they always have the girl run up the stairs? I always said I would never run up.”
Becca chuckled. “If you come up here, you aren’t running. You’re joining me.”
“But once up there, there is nowhere to run.” Claire tried to reason with herself. As for a human, perhaps a caretaker investigating the car in the drive, who would care that they were in that house now, anyway.
Long silent minutes passed by and she looked up the stairs wondering about Becca.. She hadn’t taken this long looking at anything in the rest of the house and now the silence above became as disconcerting as the silence below. “What are you doing up there?”
“There is a huge pile of stuff up here ... old papers and things ...”
“Becca, let’s just go. If you buy the house you can look later.”
“They might not be here later.”
Claire’s shoulders dropped in disappointment, and she exhaled every iota of air she had in her lungs, feeling the anxiety building. She’d broken out into a cold sweat and had goose-bumps on her arms. She could feel the hair prickle beneath her sweater. But, relenting on her previous determination not to go upstairs, she decided she’d rather be with Becca than standing here alone while some unknown something down below stalked her. Gingerly, she took the first step up just in time to see Becca step out of the attic doorway, shadow-like in the faint light. Claire breathed a sigh of relief, but strained to make the apparition she saw above solidify into her friend, Becca. “Are you ready to go yet,” she asked hopefully.
“Yeah. I’m calling the real estate agent on this one, for sure.”
Becca closed her eyes in relief, calming.
As Becca met Clair on the landing, she looked her over, and said, “Dang! You look as though you had seen a ghost!”
“I thought I did for a moment. I think it’s pretty spooky here ...”
“It is all in your head. There aren’t any ghosts. But if you imagine them, they’ll come.” She smiled. “See? We’re just fine. We can go now, though.”
As the two stepped out the back door Claire filled her lungs with fresh air. And, because she’d felt like a thief exploring the house this way, breaking and entering and all of that, she was especially relieved when Becca pulled the door closed with a solid thud behind them.
The two stood out on the back stoop and looked out over the land. The house, situated as it at the crest of the hill overlooking the valley below. In the distance, beyond sight and beyond a forest of trees, was the river. The house had been the original ranch house for all this land, now sold off, and on the property were a couple of small outbuildings, and a decrepit barn.
On the left, in the back, beyond the oak tree, was a small family plot. An old bent wrought iron fence surrounded a few lonely looking weather stained headstones. The gate stood open and hung crookedly. Tall grass threatened to hide everything.
Becca mused, “We ought to take a look around.”
Claire groaned. “Can’t we just go? You can explore them later with the real estate agent. I mean, you are going to have to pretend as though you haven’t already taken a look around the place, aren’t you? You are sure you are going to call the agency, aren’t you?”
“Sure. But while we are here, we might as well. It’ll be interesting to see if there is any old stuff around in any of them.”
“Old stuff?” Claire wished that she could just go sit in the car and wait.
But Becca was already heading down the back steps and through the tall grass toward the first of the old outbuildings. Claire followed to the edge of the walk.
Becca found the door to the place was padlocked. She took a moment to try to peer in a dusty window while Claire remained close to the house, watching her. A moment later and Becca was striding toward the barn enthusiastically.
“That old barn looks as though it’s about to cave in, Becca.”
“I know. Isn’t it awesome? For a while in college I used to go around the countryside photographing old barns. The older, the better. I even had a few displayed in an art gallery for a while. A lot of people love old barns.”
“Yeah, I remember. You’re good at photography. But if it is all the same to you, I’d rather look at your photos than the real thing.”
“It won’t take but a few minutes to look this place over.”
Claire watched the barn swallows swooping in and out after Becca vanished through the door. It looked typical enough. There couldn’t be much to it.
As Becca returned from the barn she tilted her head in the direction of the grave yard, “Want to come on out and explore that with me? Didn’t you used to make a hobby of visiting old graves and doing rubbings of the headstones?”
“Oh, that was only one summer when I went east with the family. I was just bored.”
“Well, come on. You can at least look it over with me–“ She stopped a few feet in front of Claire, tilted her head slightly in the direction of the graves and smiled. .
“Okay . . .” Claire dragged out as she stepped onto the narrow walk obscured by grass. The angle of the walk changed as they walked down the slight incline. The grave yard had been positioned on a natural outlook from which the hill fell away quickly to the valley below. It had a windswept and arid aspect to it–somehow spookily uninviting in Claire’s mind.
With its ornate wrought ironwork, topped by s-curved spear shaped points, the yard itself overgrown, the head stones moss and lichen stained, some tilting slightly and at odd angles to each other it seemed to have suffered more neglect than the interior of the house. It was the classic family plot.
The broken gate screeched as Becca pushed it open sufficiently to walk through. Claire followed her a little more closely now than she had before. Becca began to examine the various headstones, sometimes pointing out a name, or, in the case of a baby that was born and died the same day, the year. Her little grave was marked by a tiny childish angel not more than two feet high and she’d not been given a name. The most recent grave, the headstone rectangular and of plain polished granite, in the modern style, belonged to a Gertrude Mason, and the date of her death was in 1974. In comparison to its more ancient neighbors, it felt out of place. Most of the graves, however, shared a similar date, as most had died in November of 1902. And all but Gertrude shared the same last name:
Once back in the car, Claire asked, “Did you notice the dates on the headstones?”
“Yeah. I’m curious now. I want to know how and why and all about them.” Becca fastened her seatbelt and turned the key. The little car hummed to life.
“Its so sad that they all died within such a short time of each other. I wonder what they died of ... “ Claire had to grab the side of the seat again, as Becca stepped on the gas and the car bounced out of the rough drive and across the rutted gravel road, spitting gravel against the undercarriage.
“There were a number of deadly diseases that were common at that time.”
“We could check out the records, I suppose.”
“I’d like to do that. I will, just as soon as I get the time.”
“Let me know what you find out. I don’t know about you, but I started feeling really weird about the place once we took a look at the graves. The family plot was like the icing on the cake though, after the house, I mean. I was already spooked and then when I saw all those headstones I felt almost as though the house is a ... a memorial to them ... as though it has been kept just for that purpose ... as though it is a headstone itself–a marker for the whole family.”
“Interesting that you should say that. I was sort of feeling the same way.”
“There is a bleakness about this whole hill, too. It seems like a lonely place. I don’t like it.”
“I do. I like it more than ever. But I know what you mean about how lonely it feels. Hopefully, that is a sensation that will vanish just as soon as I stir things up by moving in. It fits right in with all that I most value–about lives lived and people who came before us. That’s why I’m a history buff, I guess.”
“How strange. I’d always just looked at antiques and old houses like things, just things. I never really thought about the people who lived in them and used them the way that you apparently do.”
Becca leaned back in the seat and smiled in a satisfied way, negotiating a curve in the road,. “I almost feel as though it is calling to me. I’ve never had such a strange feeling about a place before. Like ... I belong there ... and it isn’t just because I love old houses, I’ve been to plenty of them. This one seems to be almost calling to my very soul.”
“You are creeping me out!” Claire gave an exaggerated shiver. “And I’ve got goose bumps, too, just thinking about it. The place was strange enough for me without your saying that.”
Becca chuckled. “Silly. There aren’t any ghosts. There is no such thing. If you expect to hear noises, you will. If you see a fog, it is probably just a film over your eye. For me though the house is like a news story. I think of real people. I want to ferret out their lives. I can almost see them in my minds eye. Especially now that I have names and ages from reading the headstones. At any rate, I like to unravel those stories and I do whenever I can. I’ve even thought about compiling a book about it and I’ve kept notes on past investigations I’ve done.”
“I wish you'd investigate that horribly loud sound I heard when you were on the third floor--it had to be something big. Like a door was slammed . . ." Even now the hairs on the back of Claire's neck tingled against her collar and the memory seemed somehow to be prescient of things to come.
Claire said, “You don’t understand, Becca! Something made a noise downstairs. I hardly want to go through the downstairs to go outside.” Nervously, she crossed the landing again and looked down toward the main floor. Human or not, she wondered again and realized that she would be just as afraid whether it was human or ghost. If it were human ... what human?
“You could come up here?”
“Nah. I’ll just wait here for you.” Pausing, she looked down into the dark recesses of the house again, and then she added, as an afterthought, “How come in horror flicks they always have the girl run up the stairs? I always said I would never run up.”
Becca chuckled. “If you come up here, you aren’t running. You’re joining me.”
“But once up there, there is nowhere to run.” Claire tried to reason with herself. As for a human, perhaps a caretaker investigating the car in the drive, who would care that they were in that house now, anyway.
Long silent minutes passed by and she looked up the stairs wondering about Becca.. She hadn’t taken this long looking at anything in the rest of the house and now the silence above became as disconcerting as the silence below. “What are you doing up there?”
“There is a huge pile of stuff up here ... old papers and things ...”
“Becca, let’s just go. If you buy the house you can look later.”
“They might not be here later.”
Claire’s shoulders dropped in disappointment, and she exhaled every iota of air she had in her lungs, feeling the anxiety building. She’d broken out into a cold sweat and had goose-bumps on her arms. She could feel the hair prickle beneath her sweater. But, relenting on her previous determination not to go upstairs, she decided she’d rather be with Becca than standing here alone while some unknown something down below stalked her. Gingerly, she took the first step up just in time to see Becca step out of the attic doorway, shadow-like in the faint light. Claire breathed a sigh of relief, but strained to make the apparition she saw above solidify into her friend, Becca. “Are you ready to go yet,” she asked hopefully.
“Yeah. I’m calling the real estate agent on this one, for sure.”
Becca closed her eyes in relief, calming.
As Becca met Clair on the landing, she looked her over, and said, “Dang! You look as though you had seen a ghost!”
“I thought I did for a moment. I think it’s pretty spooky here ...”
“It is all in your head. There aren’t any ghosts. But if you imagine them, they’ll come.” She smiled. “See? We’re just fine. We can go now, though.”
As the two stepped out the back door Claire filled her lungs with fresh air. And, because she’d felt like a thief exploring the house this way, breaking and entering and all of that, she was especially relieved when Becca pulled the door closed with a solid thud behind them.
The two stood out on the back stoop and looked out over the land. The house, situated as it at the crest of the hill overlooking the valley below. In the distance, beyond sight and beyond a forest of trees, was the river. The house had been the original ranch house for all this land, now sold off, and on the property were a couple of small outbuildings, and a decrepit barn.
On the left, in the back, beyond the oak tree, was a small family plot. An old bent wrought iron fence surrounded a few lonely looking weather stained headstones. The gate stood open and hung crookedly. Tall grass threatened to hide everything.
Becca mused, “We ought to take a look around.”
Claire groaned. “Can’t we just go? You can explore them later with the real estate agent. I mean, you are going to have to pretend as though you haven’t already taken a look around the place, aren’t you? You are sure you are going to call the agency, aren’t you?”
“Sure. But while we are here, we might as well. It’ll be interesting to see if there is any old stuff around in any of them.”
“Old stuff?” Claire wished that she could just go sit in the car and wait.
But Becca was already heading down the back steps and through the tall grass toward the first of the old outbuildings. Claire followed to the edge of the walk.
Becca found the door to the place was padlocked. She took a moment to try to peer in a dusty window while Claire remained close to the house, watching her. A moment later and Becca was striding toward the barn enthusiastically.
“That old barn looks as though it’s about to cave in, Becca.”
“I know. Isn’t it awesome? For a while in college I used to go around the countryside photographing old barns. The older, the better. I even had a few displayed in an art gallery for a while. A lot of people love old barns.”
“Yeah, I remember. You’re good at photography. But if it is all the same to you, I’d rather look at your photos than the real thing.”
“It won’t take but a few minutes to look this place over.”
Claire watched the barn swallows swooping in and out after Becca vanished through the door. It looked typical enough. There couldn’t be much to it.
As Becca returned from the barn she tilted her head in the direction of the grave yard, “Want to come on out and explore that with me? Didn’t you used to make a hobby of visiting old graves and doing rubbings of the headstones?”
“Oh, that was only one summer when I went east with the family. I was just bored.”
“Well, come on. You can at least look it over with me–“ She stopped a few feet in front of Claire, tilted her head slightly in the direction of the graves and smiled. .
“Okay . . .” Claire dragged out as she stepped onto the narrow walk obscured by grass. The angle of the walk changed as they walked down the slight incline. The grave yard had been positioned on a natural outlook from which the hill fell away quickly to the valley below. It had a windswept and arid aspect to it–somehow spookily uninviting in Claire’s mind.
With its ornate wrought ironwork, topped by s-curved spear shaped points, the yard itself overgrown, the head stones moss and lichen stained, some tilting slightly and at odd angles to each other it seemed to have suffered more neglect than the interior of the house. It was the classic family plot.
The broken gate screeched as Becca pushed it open sufficiently to walk through. Claire followed her a little more closely now than she had before. Becca began to examine the various headstones, sometimes pointing out a name, or, in the case of a baby that was born and died the same day, the year. Her little grave was marked by a tiny childish angel not more than two feet high and she’d not been given a name. The most recent grave, the headstone rectangular and of plain polished granite, in the modern style, belonged to a Gertrude Mason, and the date of her death was in 1974. In comparison to its more ancient neighbors, it felt out of place. Most of the graves, however, shared a similar date, as most had died in November of 1902. And all but Gertrude shared the same last name:
Once back in the car, Claire asked, “Did you notice the dates on the headstones?”
“Yeah. I’m curious now. I want to know how and why and all about them.” Becca fastened her seatbelt and turned the key. The little car hummed to life.
“Its so sad that they all died within such a short time of each other. I wonder what they died of ... “ Claire had to grab the side of the seat again, as Becca stepped on the gas and the car bounced out of the rough drive and across the rutted gravel road, spitting gravel against the undercarriage.
“There were a number of deadly diseases that were common at that time.”
“We could check out the records, I suppose.”
“I’d like to do that. I will, just as soon as I get the time.”
“Let me know what you find out. I don’t know about you, but I started feeling really weird about the place once we took a look at the graves. The family plot was like the icing on the cake though, after the house, I mean. I was already spooked and then when I saw all those headstones I felt almost as though the house is a ... a memorial to them ... as though it has been kept just for that purpose ... as though it is a headstone itself–a marker for the whole family.”
“Interesting that you should say that. I was sort of feeling the same way.”
“There is a bleakness about this whole hill, too. It seems like a lonely place. I don’t like it.”
“I do. I like it more than ever. But I know what you mean about how lonely it feels. Hopefully, that is a sensation that will vanish just as soon as I stir things up by moving in. It fits right in with all that I most value–about lives lived and people who came before us. That’s why I’m a history buff, I guess.”
“How strange. I’d always just looked at antiques and old houses like things, just things. I never really thought about the people who lived in them and used them the way that you apparently do.”
Becca leaned back in the seat and smiled in a satisfied way, negotiating a curve in the road,. “I almost feel as though it is calling to me. I’ve never had such a strange feeling about a place before. Like ... I belong there ... and it isn’t just because I love old houses, I’ve been to plenty of them. This one seems to be almost calling to my very soul.”
“You are creeping me out!” Claire gave an exaggerated shiver. “And I’ve got goose bumps, too, just thinking about it. The place was strange enough for me without your saying that.”
Becca chuckled. “Silly. There aren’t any ghosts. There is no such thing. If you expect to hear noises, you will. If you see a fog, it is probably just a film over your eye. For me though the house is like a news story. I think of real people. I want to ferret out their lives. I can almost see them in my minds eye. Especially now that I have names and ages from reading the headstones. At any rate, I like to unravel those stories and I do whenever I can. I’ve even thought about compiling a book about it and I’ve kept notes on past investigations I’ve done.”
“I wish you'd investigate that horribly loud sound I heard when you were on the third floor--it had to be something big. Like a door was slammed . . ." Even now the hairs on the back of Claire's neck tingled against her collar and the memory seemed somehow to be prescient of things to come.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Charm: 3rd Increment:
Just as Clair prepared to walk into the foyer, she heard the Becca say, “Oh, Claire! You have got to see this staircase. It’s perfect. Just imagine this room all clean and bright and repainted.”
Coming around the door jam, she looked up at the staircase to her right. “It is. This could be featured in Southern Living.”
“Well, I don’t think it is that spectacular. But it is charming in a small way.”
The room was fused with a different colored light than that of the dining room. It came in through both the beveled and frosted glass of the front door and from a smaller stained glass window on the first landing. “Is that window on the landing a Tiffany?”
“I can’t tell. Probably an imitation. But it is lovely, in any case.” Becca said, exploring the recess behind the stairs.
Brushing back by Claire, Becca asked, “Did you see that back room? A study, I think, judging from all the built in book shelves. It still has the old pot bellied stove they used to heat it.”
“No ... I didn’t see it,” Claire said glancing down the hallway toward the invisible door to it. “I’ll pass.”.
“You saw the parlor ... er living room? Charming, but a bit smaller than I’d like.”
“They didn’t use them often, did they?” Claire answered.
“You should at least stick your head in the door. Take a look at that tile around the fireplace.”
“Maybe ... really, Becca, I ...”
“Oh, never mind. You can see it later after I move in.”
Becca stood for a moment at the bottom of the stairs. As she scanned the room, her eyes flitted from feature to feature, pausing longest on the lovely newel post and the hand rail, “I love to speculate about what it must have been like to have lived in a place like this when it was new. Can you imagine? I’d say this dates back to the late 1890's. Wouldn’t you? Everything in this house is so original and so like it would have been, that I can almost imagine the ladies all dressed up in those cinched in dresses with leg-o-mutton sleeves . . . and maybe a row of tiny buttons all the way down the front of the bodice. I think they wore big bows at the nape of their necks at about that time. Very romantic.”
“Sometimes you surprise me, Becca.”
Becca focused a sharp, appraising look on Claire, “How’s that?”
“Do you ever even wear a dress? I’d never guess that you had a romantic streak.”
“I simply love history, Claire. If we don’t have a sense where we’ve been, then we won’t have a sense of where we are going, either. I simply believe we ought to preserve the past as much as we are able.”
Claire said, observing the wallpaper that was peeling away from the walls just inside the door and grimmaced.
Becca smiled tolerantly. “C’mon, let’s go upstairs and see the bedrooms.” She grasped the rail and launched up the first few steps.
“Okay. Let’s.” Donna’s stomach dropped as she saw Claire climb the stairs taking two at a time. “It’s a wonder that you have never broken a leg. How can you possibly run up the stairs in a house this old? I don’t think I can carry you if one of those treads break and you fall through.”
“You won’t have to. They’re sound,” Becca said as she vanished at the top of the stairs. “I haven’t seen any evidence of leaks, no ruined ceilings ... this place looks as though it has been taken care of ever since it was built.”
“Correction. The outside has been cared for ever since it was built. It looks like nothing has been done inside.”
“That’s what makes this house such a treasure. I can make an effort to match the patterns and colors on the wallpaper and actually restore it. I’ll bet the paint outside is even in the original colors, even if it is more than a hundred years old.”
Claire had only managed to climb half the stairs before she had the next verbal update. “Oh! A sitting room. It’s lovely. It even has a fireplace. And the master bedroom is roomy.”
Claire finally gained the top step and nearly ran into Becca coming out of the master bedroom. “Don’t fail to take a look out the door in the bedroom. It’s the sleeping porch. Amazing!”
“I will.” Claire said without conviction. Her eyes followed Becca until she vanished through the door of another bedroom. She heard Becca’s voice echo in the empty room as she exclaimed, “Nice!”
Claire entered the master suite, glanced around it swiftly as she hurried through and merely glanced through the window onto the sleeping porch. It looked dreary to her with all twelve windows covered, the dark green shades pulled closed.
As Claire exited the master suite, she entered the hallway just in time to see Becca’s feet tripping up the stairs. She heard the hinges squeal above as Becca passed through the doorway at the top.
Claire approached the newel post and leaned across the rail, craning her neck so she could look up. It was dark and unwelcoming with just the faintest tint of green light issuing from the landing above..
The hairs on the back of Claire’s neck tingled and she felt a chill. She could hear the slight creaks and pops above her head as Becca walked through the room over her head. Remaining stock still, all Claire’s senses intensified. The house seemed to become full of sound, as the slightest sound echoed hollowly through the entire house. Behind her, she heard a slight scratching noise. ‘Mice in the walls’ she thought, but turned toward the sound curiously. At that moment she felt as if something were watching her. Another chill clawed up her spine.
“Bang!” Clair jumped. Something in the downstairs, like a door slammed shut or as though something heavy hit the floor, the sound reverberating through the house. Claire’s heart raced and she pressed her hand over her heart and gasped for air. Turning hesitantly, eyes wide, she glanced fearfully down the stairs, holding her breath to listen.
Below, she could see only the quiet circle of bare wood flooring at the base of the stairs. Nothing moved and she didn’t expect it to. But the shadows beyond her vision seemed thick and hazy. First, she began to lean over the rail to see more of the foyer, but, frightened by her sense of imbalance, she turned back to the attic stairs. She called up to Becca, “Would you hurry? Something made a huge noise downstairs. Maybe we aren’t alone anymore.”
Coming around the door jam, she looked up at the staircase to her right. “It is. This could be featured in Southern Living.”
“Well, I don’t think it is that spectacular. But it is charming in a small way.”
The room was fused with a different colored light than that of the dining room. It came in through both the beveled and frosted glass of the front door and from a smaller stained glass window on the first landing. “Is that window on the landing a Tiffany?”
“I can’t tell. Probably an imitation. But it is lovely, in any case.” Becca said, exploring the recess behind the stairs.
Brushing back by Claire, Becca asked, “Did you see that back room? A study, I think, judging from all the built in book shelves. It still has the old pot bellied stove they used to heat it.”
“No ... I didn’t see it,” Claire said glancing down the hallway toward the invisible door to it. “I’ll pass.”.
“You saw the parlor ... er living room? Charming, but a bit smaller than I’d like.”
“They didn’t use them often, did they?” Claire answered.
“You should at least stick your head in the door. Take a look at that tile around the fireplace.”
“Maybe ... really, Becca, I ...”
“Oh, never mind. You can see it later after I move in.”
Becca stood for a moment at the bottom of the stairs. As she scanned the room, her eyes flitted from feature to feature, pausing longest on the lovely newel post and the hand rail, “I love to speculate about what it must have been like to have lived in a place like this when it was new. Can you imagine? I’d say this dates back to the late 1890's. Wouldn’t you? Everything in this house is so original and so like it would have been, that I can almost imagine the ladies all dressed up in those cinched in dresses with leg-o-mutton sleeves . . . and maybe a row of tiny buttons all the way down the front of the bodice. I think they wore big bows at the nape of their necks at about that time. Very romantic.”
“Sometimes you surprise me, Becca.”
Becca focused a sharp, appraising look on Claire, “How’s that?”
“Do you ever even wear a dress? I’d never guess that you had a romantic streak.”
“I simply love history, Claire. If we don’t have a sense where we’ve been, then we won’t have a sense of where we are going, either. I simply believe we ought to preserve the past as much as we are able.”
Claire said, observing the wallpaper that was peeling away from the walls just inside the door and grimmaced.
Becca smiled tolerantly. “C’mon, let’s go upstairs and see the bedrooms.” She grasped the rail and launched up the first few steps.
“Okay. Let’s.” Donna’s stomach dropped as she saw Claire climb the stairs taking two at a time. “It’s a wonder that you have never broken a leg. How can you possibly run up the stairs in a house this old? I don’t think I can carry you if one of those treads break and you fall through.”
“You won’t have to. They’re sound,” Becca said as she vanished at the top of the stairs. “I haven’t seen any evidence of leaks, no ruined ceilings ... this place looks as though it has been taken care of ever since it was built.”
“Correction. The outside has been cared for ever since it was built. It looks like nothing has been done inside.”
“That’s what makes this house such a treasure. I can make an effort to match the patterns and colors on the wallpaper and actually restore it. I’ll bet the paint outside is even in the original colors, even if it is more than a hundred years old.”
Claire had only managed to climb half the stairs before she had the next verbal update. “Oh! A sitting room. It’s lovely. It even has a fireplace. And the master bedroom is roomy.”
Claire finally gained the top step and nearly ran into Becca coming out of the master bedroom. “Don’t fail to take a look out the door in the bedroom. It’s the sleeping porch. Amazing!”
“I will.” Claire said without conviction. Her eyes followed Becca until she vanished through the door of another bedroom. She heard Becca’s voice echo in the empty room as she exclaimed, “Nice!”
Claire entered the master suite, glanced around it swiftly as she hurried through and merely glanced through the window onto the sleeping porch. It looked dreary to her with all twelve windows covered, the dark green shades pulled closed.
As Claire exited the master suite, she entered the hallway just in time to see Becca’s feet tripping up the stairs. She heard the hinges squeal above as Becca passed through the doorway at the top.
Claire approached the newel post and leaned across the rail, craning her neck so she could look up. It was dark and unwelcoming with just the faintest tint of green light issuing from the landing above..
The hairs on the back of Claire’s neck tingled and she felt a chill. She could hear the slight creaks and pops above her head as Becca walked through the room over her head. Remaining stock still, all Claire’s senses intensified. The house seemed to become full of sound, as the slightest sound echoed hollowly through the entire house. Behind her, she heard a slight scratching noise. ‘Mice in the walls’ she thought, but turned toward the sound curiously. At that moment she felt as if something were watching her. Another chill clawed up her spine.
“Bang!” Clair jumped. Something in the downstairs, like a door slammed shut or as though something heavy hit the floor, the sound reverberating through the house. Claire’s heart raced and she pressed her hand over her heart and gasped for air. Turning hesitantly, eyes wide, she glanced fearfully down the stairs, holding her breath to listen.
Below, she could see only the quiet circle of bare wood flooring at the base of the stairs. Nothing moved and she didn’t expect it to. But the shadows beyond her vision seemed thick and hazy. First, she began to lean over the rail to see more of the foyer, but, frightened by her sense of imbalance, she turned back to the attic stairs. She called up to Becca, “Would you hurry? Something made a huge noise downstairs. Maybe we aren’t alone anymore.”
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Charm, increment 2
Claire joined her on the walk. “I have to admit, it does have charm. Victorians are beautiful, but I dread even thinking about living in one as drafty as they are. Not to mention all the expensive repairs it could take, like dry rot and termite damage.”
“Old houses are one of my soft spots. Nothing that is built now can touch the quality of craftsmanship.”
“Nobody can argue with that,” Claire responded, thinking that arguing with Becca was always a waste of time.
“Well! Let’s take a look at the rest of it.”
Claire gave Becca a wilting look. “The grass is hip high.”
“So?”
“Tics and things. You know?”
Claire caught a glimpse of Becca’s azure eyes sparkling beneath her errant bangs as Becca grinned with ornery enthusiasm. Claire felt her heart drop, feeling the old tug of anxiety about what Becca might be planning next. It took her back to a thousand similar moments when the two were best friends in grade school. Then Becca said the same old thing she always said at times like this, taunting Clair with her old challenge, “Where is your sense of adventure?” Briskly turning away, Becca added, “You don’t suppose we can find a door or a window we can get in through, do you?” She started off down the walk to the front door, swiftly.
“You don’t mean to break in here, do you? We aren’t kids anymore!”
“Sure, I’ll break in if I find a way. The porch is amazing. Look at all those spindles in the railing–each one had to be hand turned!”
As Becca stepped onto the porch, Claire could hear the heavy creak of the unused porch boards. “Are you sure they didn’t have mass production by then?” Claire asked as she tried to avoid the touch of the heads of tall clumps of grass that leaned across the narrow walk.
The tall grass was still retained a tint green from the end of the summer. A wind ruffled through the branches of the line of cedars along the driveway and the slight whistling sound gave her goose bumps and reminded her of the ghosts that were said to be here.
The first thing Becca did was to try the door nob, but the door was firmly locked. She bent over to peer into the interior through beveled glass panes in the double front doors. When she’d found a clear spot to look through, she cupped her hands around her eyes to block the light so she could look in. “The foyer is lovely! How perfect! ... How typically Victorian!”
Claire stood patiently behind her at the top of the first step, not even sure of putting her weight on the old boards, as she waited for Becca’s next move. Becca didn’t pause long before she’d turned back toward the steps and practically bounced off the front porch, brushing past Claire in her enthusiasm.
Becca stepped farther out into the yard to view the front one more time, and said, “Too bad they’ve drawn all the shades. It gives the house a blank stare look.”
Claire, standing on the walk, said, “I think it makes it look even more creepy. What could be more creepy than a house on the top of a windswept hill, taller than it is wide–as though it belongs in a city like New Orleans–with all the windows black in broad daylight. It looks so . . . so lifeless.”
Becca stepped off to the side of the house, ignoring the tall weeds that brushed her elbows and not even looking where she was going as she gazed up at the house. Claire made her way carefully, picking through the tall grass and examining the ground in front of her before taking each step, blaming her slowness on her own short legs as compared to the long strides that Becca could take due to her own long skinny ones.
“Look at this massive old oak!” Becca exclaimed as she approached the back corner of the house. “What a beautiful shade tree.”
Claire muttered, “Uh huh,” inaudibly, she could care less about old shade trees, but Becca didn’t seem to notice as she vanished around the corner of the house, her shuffling in the deep pile of leaves making a whooshing sound as she walked.
Claire rounded the corner just in time to see Becca try the back door. It didn’t budge, but Becca stooped as though examining the lock, then tried again. When it didn’t open, she paused, looked up at the house with a determined expression, then tried again with both hands, shaking the door hard.
“You aren’t really going to break in, are you?”
“I don’t think it is locked. I don’t see the bolt.”
“What if you break something. That old wooden door might just give if you ...”
Just then Becca threw her weight against it and Claire gasped. The door gave way, the windows rattled and the rusty old hinges squealed as Becca pushed it the rest of the way open. As soon as Becca was through, she vanished into the black interior of the enclosed porch.
“We’re in!” she shouted victoriously. Are you coming?”
Shaking her head at her friend’s temerity, Claire shuffled through the remaining leaves and mounted the stairs to the door grasping the old iron rail next to the steps as though she could pull her unwilling feet toward that gaping black doorway.
On the threshold, peering into the darkness she could hear Becca’s steps echo back hollowly, the floor creaking and popping ominously beneath her weight. Claire paused, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dark. Ahead she heard Becca exclaim, “Oh, what a perfect old cast iron stove! This whole kitchen is original ...”
Claire rolled her eyes. “Oh, quit gushing. Who would want original.” She tried to follow, waving at unseen cobwebs as she walked gingerly into the kitchen. “I thought you hated dirty houses. This place is so filthy that I can smell the dust. And who knows what else ... mold? Rodents?” The chill that crept down her spine stuck and caused her to shiver. “It’s cold in here.” She barely caught sight of the vague form of her friend in the faint green light that filtered through the shades as Becca passed through into the next room.
“I dunno. The house isn’t filthy. Its just dusty. The air isn’t foul, it is just stale from being locked up.
“Wow! Look at that chandelier. Crystal, even.”
Claire grimaced when she heard even more of Becca’s enthusiastic praise for the old house and wished something truly awful would turn up to discourage Becca and end her own misery.
Rubbing her upper arms briskly as she followed Becca into the dining room, she scanned the room suspiciously and said, “I think it would be too much work. Every room would have to be fixed up before you could even begin to move in.” She saw Becca go through another doorway, and added, “Would you wait up?”
“What is taking you so long?”
“I’m just being careful. How do you know these old floorboards aren’t rotten.”
“Oh, they are as solid as the day the house was built!”
“I suppose that is why they pop and creak with every step?”
A few slivers of light filtered in through the old green pull shades that hung on the three narrow windows, side by side, on one side of the room. Old wallpaper hung in strips, the print so browned with age that the pattern was almost indiscernible. Heavy mahogony woodwork dominated the room. The doors through which Becca had gone, were a pair of French doors with beveled glass panes that shattered the narrow streaks of light from the windows into tiny rainbows. Claire admired the fine old leaded crystal chandelier–not a broken or missing prism evident–even if she wouldn’t dare let Becca know that she did.
Becca had vanished completely, although she could hear her footsteps and an occasional creak of floorboards from somewhere to her left.
“Old houses are one of my soft spots. Nothing that is built now can touch the quality of craftsmanship.”
“Nobody can argue with that,” Claire responded, thinking that arguing with Becca was always a waste of time.
“Well! Let’s take a look at the rest of it.”
Claire gave Becca a wilting look. “The grass is hip high.”
“So?”
“Tics and things. You know?”
Claire caught a glimpse of Becca’s azure eyes sparkling beneath her errant bangs as Becca grinned with ornery enthusiasm. Claire felt her heart drop, feeling the old tug of anxiety about what Becca might be planning next. It took her back to a thousand similar moments when the two were best friends in grade school. Then Becca said the same old thing she always said at times like this, taunting Clair with her old challenge, “Where is your sense of adventure?” Briskly turning away, Becca added, “You don’t suppose we can find a door or a window we can get in through, do you?” She started off down the walk to the front door, swiftly.
“You don’t mean to break in here, do you? We aren’t kids anymore!”
“Sure, I’ll break in if I find a way. The porch is amazing. Look at all those spindles in the railing–each one had to be hand turned!”
As Becca stepped onto the porch, Claire could hear the heavy creak of the unused porch boards. “Are you sure they didn’t have mass production by then?” Claire asked as she tried to avoid the touch of the heads of tall clumps of grass that leaned across the narrow walk.
The tall grass was still retained a tint green from the end of the summer. A wind ruffled through the branches of the line of cedars along the driveway and the slight whistling sound gave her goose bumps and reminded her of the ghosts that were said to be here.
The first thing Becca did was to try the door nob, but the door was firmly locked. She bent over to peer into the interior through beveled glass panes in the double front doors. When she’d found a clear spot to look through, she cupped her hands around her eyes to block the light so she could look in. “The foyer is lovely! How perfect! ... How typically Victorian!”
Claire stood patiently behind her at the top of the first step, not even sure of putting her weight on the old boards, as she waited for Becca’s next move. Becca didn’t pause long before she’d turned back toward the steps and practically bounced off the front porch, brushing past Claire in her enthusiasm.
Becca stepped farther out into the yard to view the front one more time, and said, “Too bad they’ve drawn all the shades. It gives the house a blank stare look.”
Claire, standing on the walk, said, “I think it makes it look even more creepy. What could be more creepy than a house on the top of a windswept hill, taller than it is wide–as though it belongs in a city like New Orleans–with all the windows black in broad daylight. It looks so . . . so lifeless.”
Becca stepped off to the side of the house, ignoring the tall weeds that brushed her elbows and not even looking where she was going as she gazed up at the house. Claire made her way carefully, picking through the tall grass and examining the ground in front of her before taking each step, blaming her slowness on her own short legs as compared to the long strides that Becca could take due to her own long skinny ones.
“Look at this massive old oak!” Becca exclaimed as she approached the back corner of the house. “What a beautiful shade tree.”
Claire muttered, “Uh huh,” inaudibly, she could care less about old shade trees, but Becca didn’t seem to notice as she vanished around the corner of the house, her shuffling in the deep pile of leaves making a whooshing sound as she walked.
Claire rounded the corner just in time to see Becca try the back door. It didn’t budge, but Becca stooped as though examining the lock, then tried again. When it didn’t open, she paused, looked up at the house with a determined expression, then tried again with both hands, shaking the door hard.
“You aren’t really going to break in, are you?”
“I don’t think it is locked. I don’t see the bolt.”
“What if you break something. That old wooden door might just give if you ...”
Just then Becca threw her weight against it and Claire gasped. The door gave way, the windows rattled and the rusty old hinges squealed as Becca pushed it the rest of the way open. As soon as Becca was through, she vanished into the black interior of the enclosed porch.
“We’re in!” she shouted victoriously. Are you coming?”
Shaking her head at her friend’s temerity, Claire shuffled through the remaining leaves and mounted the stairs to the door grasping the old iron rail next to the steps as though she could pull her unwilling feet toward that gaping black doorway.
On the threshold, peering into the darkness she could hear Becca’s steps echo back hollowly, the floor creaking and popping ominously beneath her weight. Claire paused, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dark. Ahead she heard Becca exclaim, “Oh, what a perfect old cast iron stove! This whole kitchen is original ...”
Claire rolled her eyes. “Oh, quit gushing. Who would want original.” She tried to follow, waving at unseen cobwebs as she walked gingerly into the kitchen. “I thought you hated dirty houses. This place is so filthy that I can smell the dust. And who knows what else ... mold? Rodents?” The chill that crept down her spine stuck and caused her to shiver. “It’s cold in here.” She barely caught sight of the vague form of her friend in the faint green light that filtered through the shades as Becca passed through into the next room.
“I dunno. The house isn’t filthy. Its just dusty. The air isn’t foul, it is just stale from being locked up.
“Wow! Look at that chandelier. Crystal, even.”
Claire grimaced when she heard even more of Becca’s enthusiastic praise for the old house and wished something truly awful would turn up to discourage Becca and end her own misery.
Rubbing her upper arms briskly as she followed Becca into the dining room, she scanned the room suspiciously and said, “I think it would be too much work. Every room would have to be fixed up before you could even begin to move in.” She saw Becca go through another doorway, and added, “Would you wait up?”
“What is taking you so long?”
“I’m just being careful. How do you know these old floorboards aren’t rotten.”
“Oh, they are as solid as the day the house was built!”
“I suppose that is why they pop and creak with every step?”
A few slivers of light filtered in through the old green pull shades that hung on the three narrow windows, side by side, on one side of the room. Old wallpaper hung in strips, the print so browned with age that the pattern was almost indiscernible. Heavy mahogony woodwork dominated the room. The doors through which Becca had gone, were a pair of French doors with beveled glass panes that shattered the narrow streaks of light from the windows into tiny rainbows. Claire admired the fine old leaded crystal chandelier–not a broken or missing prism evident–even if she wouldn’t dare let Becca know that she did.
Becca had vanished completely, although she could hear her footsteps and an occasional creak of floorboards from somewhere to her left.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
W.I.S.H.
I've been so distracted of late that this challenge sneaked up on me even though I had intended to advertise it and promote it in order to invite others who write to join in on the challenge.
Writing
Isn't
So
Hard!
So, flustered as I am, it is really important to me to revise my NaNoNovels and get the CRAP off my hard drive! I have this nightmare scenario where I die and somebody reads this trash. So, I want to improve the quality of the trash. After both the NaNo's that I won, I felt that my novels both had redeeming plots developing by the end of the month, I was even excited about them, but both contained and estimated 30,000 words of blather that I poured on the page to meet my daily minimum. I hope that my estimate turns out to be high and there is more to redeem the novels than not.
My personal challenge is to derive or produce at least one thousand words of 1st Draft quality writing from the Discovery Draft beginning with my 2005 novel: Charm
That first increment that I posted took very little effort. Future days may well be hair pulling events and I may end February without a hair left on my head.
Writing
Isn't
So
Hard!
So, flustered as I am, it is really important to me to revise my NaNoNovels and get the CRAP off my hard drive! I have this nightmare scenario where I die and somebody reads this trash. So, I want to improve the quality of the trash. After both the NaNo's that I won, I felt that my novels both had redeeming plots developing by the end of the month, I was even excited about them, but both contained and estimated 30,000 words of blather that I poured on the page to meet my daily minimum. I hope that my estimate turns out to be high and there is more to redeem the novels than not.
My personal challenge is to derive or produce at least one thousand words of 1st Draft quality writing from the Discovery Draft beginning with my 2005 novel: Charm
That first increment that I posted took very little effort. Future days may well be hair pulling events and I may end February without a hair left on my head.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Charm, increment 1
I suggested that I would work on posting my two NaNoWriMo novels--reviewing and revising (at least slightly) in increments. I'll post in approximately 1,000 word increments as near as a good stopping point will allow. This effort may bog down from time to time if some other writing project interrupts it, such as an upcoming challenge on Skateboard.
Charm: Chapter 1
“Light!”
Becca crumpled the want ads against the console as the light changed to green, “Okay, where is Ridge Road?”
Claire, gripped the side of the seat as Becca stomped on the gas, and muttered through clenched teeth, “Ridge Road?”
“Yep. 1100 Ridge Road. It is the last house on the list.”
“I don’t think you want that house. Not if it is the one I think it is.”
Becca cast a sideways glance in her direction. “Why? What’s wrong with it?”
“People say it’s haunted.”
“Oh, don’t give me that! I don’t believe in that stuff. Just stories people tell their children to make them terrified to leave their beds. Now, tell me where Ridge Road is. I’ve forgotten.”
“I’ll bet it’s a mess. I don’t think that it has been lived in for years.”
“Every house we’ve seen is either a mess or they are asking too much for it.”
Claire sighed. “Head out on Carlton Road toward the golf course.”
“Okay.” Becca took a swift turn from Main street without taking her foot off the gas peddle, heading for Carlton Road. The neighborhood changed from turn-of-the-century store fronts to 20th Century strip malls and stores and acres of near empty parking lots. “What do you know about the house other than that it is haunted?”
“Not much. I think an old man lived there alone for years. It could be worse than a mess.”
Becca gave Claire a frown and a shrug as if to say it made no difference to her, “It is a Victorian. That’s what I’m looking for. And the more original the better, as far as I am concerned. I always dreamt of restoring an old house, but it wasn’t possible in Dallas.” Becca gave a hard turn of the wheel and the VW bug zipped around another corner and they were on the homestretch toward Ridge Road.
“Sounds like a lot of work, to me. I’d rather buy a nice clean house with all the modern conveniences, ready to move into. At least if I were in the market, I would” Housing developments slipped past them giving way to vast open fields. “When you pass the convenience store, take the first right.” Preparing for another sharp corner, Claire grasped hold of the armrest for support.
Becca pulled one of her fast turns. She stepped too hard on the gas, causing the wheels to spin on the gravel road. Claire’s hand clamped on the side of the seat again. Soon, the little car was flying along the narrow country road, more in the middle than on the right. One thing Becca hadn’t forgotten while living in the big city was how to drive on a country road, Claire thought. She grit her teeth as they hit a sharp curve going too fast. The back end of the car fishtailed momentarily. Other than a trailer or a modular house here or there, the fields along the road were open country and planted mostly in wheat, a light green haze over the fresh dark dirt. The sky was bright, clear blue and the trees they passed sported leaves turning from the dull olive drab of late summer to the high color of autumn. It would be a nice day for a ride if Becca wasn’t driving. Glancing in the rear view mirror, all Claire could see was the dust screen raised by the car as it tore down the road.
“How far is it?” Becca asked as the VW bug began a steep ascent up toward the top of a ridge, dust billowing out behind it.
“Not far, now. Once we get to the top here, you should be able to see it.”
“This is one rustic road.”
“Yeah, we have a lot of ‘em around here.” Claire caught her old friend’s glance and slight smile.
They crested the top of the ridge and Claire caught site of the old house. But before she had a chance to say anything, Becca said, “So that’s it, huh?”
“Uh huh.”
“It’s just what I’ve been looking for.”
“You haven’t seen it, yet.”
“It doesn’t matter. It has potential.”
Claire laughed. “Yeah. I’d look inside first, if I were you.”
Coming abreast of it, Becca finally slowed, turning into the graveled drive. She came to a stop right where the passenger side door was even with the narrow cement walk that lead to the front door, she turned off the ignition and pulled hard on the emergency brake. Leaning forward to look up at the house through the windshield, she declared, “It’s awesome!”
“Tiny tumbleweeds! Take a look at it first, would’ja?” Claire said, and they both laughed. “It could have years of filth in it. And, as long as its been vacant, who knows who’s been here ... vagrants, teens ... It could be really nasty.”
“Spit and polish. Just like Gran used to say. That’s all that would take.”
“Makes my mouth feel dry just thinking about it.”
Becca chuckled and popped the door open. “I think it looks as though it has been cared for.” Before Claire could get her own door open, Becca was already out, slamming the car door behind her.
Once she’d gained the sidewalk, she stopped to study the front of the house in more detail. She ran her fingers through her short cropped auburn hair as though to brush her bangs out of her eyes, but they had fallen back into place before she said, “At least they haven’t neglected to maintain it. The paint isn’t cracked or flaking off and the roof looks nearly new.”
The house was a typical Queen Anne, painted a soft gray green with dark green trim. A cupola dominated the view on the driveway side. The front door was painted the same dark green as the rest of the trim, and a delicate spindle-work surrounded the porch that continued across the front and around the tower. The windows were typical of the period and were tall and narrow, both upstairs and down. The dark green gingerbread was continued at each gable on the second story. The third story, barely apparent, was represented by a Queen Anne style gable in the front and a half moon window.
Charm: Chapter 1
“Light!”
Becca crumpled the want ads against the console as the light changed to green, “Okay, where is Ridge Road?”
Claire, gripped the side of the seat as Becca stomped on the gas, and muttered through clenched teeth, “Ridge Road?”
“Yep. 1100 Ridge Road. It is the last house on the list.”
“I don’t think you want that house. Not if it is the one I think it is.”
Becca cast a sideways glance in her direction. “Why? What’s wrong with it?”
“People say it’s haunted.”
“Oh, don’t give me that! I don’t believe in that stuff. Just stories people tell their children to make them terrified to leave their beds. Now, tell me where Ridge Road is. I’ve forgotten.”
“I’ll bet it’s a mess. I don’t think that it has been lived in for years.”
“Every house we’ve seen is either a mess or they are asking too much for it.”
Claire sighed. “Head out on Carlton Road toward the golf course.”
“Okay.” Becca took a swift turn from Main street without taking her foot off the gas peddle, heading for Carlton Road. The neighborhood changed from turn-of-the-century store fronts to 20th Century strip malls and stores and acres of near empty parking lots. “What do you know about the house other than that it is haunted?”
“Not much. I think an old man lived there alone for years. It could be worse than a mess.”
Becca gave Claire a frown and a shrug as if to say it made no difference to her, “It is a Victorian. That’s what I’m looking for. And the more original the better, as far as I am concerned. I always dreamt of restoring an old house, but it wasn’t possible in Dallas.” Becca gave a hard turn of the wheel and the VW bug zipped around another corner and they were on the homestretch toward Ridge Road.
“Sounds like a lot of work, to me. I’d rather buy a nice clean house with all the modern conveniences, ready to move into. At least if I were in the market, I would” Housing developments slipped past them giving way to vast open fields. “When you pass the convenience store, take the first right.” Preparing for another sharp corner, Claire grasped hold of the armrest for support.
Becca pulled one of her fast turns. She stepped too hard on the gas, causing the wheels to spin on the gravel road. Claire’s hand clamped on the side of the seat again. Soon, the little car was flying along the narrow country road, more in the middle than on the right. One thing Becca hadn’t forgotten while living in the big city was how to drive on a country road, Claire thought. She grit her teeth as they hit a sharp curve going too fast. The back end of the car fishtailed momentarily. Other than a trailer or a modular house here or there, the fields along the road were open country and planted mostly in wheat, a light green haze over the fresh dark dirt. The sky was bright, clear blue and the trees they passed sported leaves turning from the dull olive drab of late summer to the high color of autumn. It would be a nice day for a ride if Becca wasn’t driving. Glancing in the rear view mirror, all Claire could see was the dust screen raised by the car as it tore down the road.
“How far is it?” Becca asked as the VW bug began a steep ascent up toward the top of a ridge, dust billowing out behind it.
“Not far, now. Once we get to the top here, you should be able to see it.”
“This is one rustic road.”
“Yeah, we have a lot of ‘em around here.” Claire caught her old friend’s glance and slight smile.
They crested the top of the ridge and Claire caught site of the old house. But before she had a chance to say anything, Becca said, “So that’s it, huh?”
“Uh huh.”
“It’s just what I’ve been looking for.”
“You haven’t seen it, yet.”
“It doesn’t matter. It has potential.”
Claire laughed. “Yeah. I’d look inside first, if I were you.”
Coming abreast of it, Becca finally slowed, turning into the graveled drive. She came to a stop right where the passenger side door was even with the narrow cement walk that lead to the front door, she turned off the ignition and pulled hard on the emergency brake. Leaning forward to look up at the house through the windshield, she declared, “It’s awesome!”
“Tiny tumbleweeds! Take a look at it first, would’ja?” Claire said, and they both laughed. “It could have years of filth in it. And, as long as its been vacant, who knows who’s been here ... vagrants, teens ... It could be really nasty.”
“Spit and polish. Just like Gran used to say. That’s all that would take.”
“Makes my mouth feel dry just thinking about it.”
Becca chuckled and popped the door open. “I think it looks as though it has been cared for.” Before Claire could get her own door open, Becca was already out, slamming the car door behind her.
Once she’d gained the sidewalk, she stopped to study the front of the house in more detail. She ran her fingers through her short cropped auburn hair as though to brush her bangs out of her eyes, but they had fallen back into place before she said, “At least they haven’t neglected to maintain it. The paint isn’t cracked or flaking off and the roof looks nearly new.”
The house was a typical Queen Anne, painted a soft gray green with dark green trim. A cupola dominated the view on the driveway side. The front door was painted the same dark green as the rest of the trim, and a delicate spindle-work surrounded the porch that continued across the front and around the tower. The windows were typical of the period and were tall and narrow, both upstairs and down. The dark green gingerbread was continued at each gable on the second story. The third story, barely apparent, was represented by a Queen Anne style gable in the front and a half moon window.