I didn't know exactly what attracted me to this little old farmhouse that was for sale--until I walked out on the porch. As if in a Coming Attractions reel, I saw myself sitting with my feet propped up on the railing, a legal pad in my lap (remember those?--they don't need batteries), basking in breeze and birdsong, and WRITING. And that happened. Every year about this time, the porch became the best room in the house, and my muse and I have spent happy hours there. However, just as I let weeds overcome my garden, I stopped treating my porch like the special place it is, and my muse like the special person SHE is. My porch became a place of flyspecks, cobwebs, and dust. My muse wasn't interested. So this week I armed myself with buckets of ammonia, rags, and brushes, and made my porch home again. Just as I was finishing, Annabelle and Ivy, the little girls who live next door, came over with a handful of lilac blooms for me. I put them in a blue glass vase and gave them a place of honor on the porch.
My muse won't be able to resist.
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