I don’t know what this stretch of Rt. 42 is called - they can’t be routes anymore. Not since 9/11. Isn’t that odd? Who would have thought of all the things that could and would change, that how we name our roads would be one of them?
But there’s a house on Rt. 42, just past Parnassas – you can’t find it on MapQuest, so don’t bother trying – not so sure about google earth.
The house is beautiful – white frame house with an almost-wraparound porch.
Of all the houses I’ve lived in, it’s the one thing I long for but have never had: a wraparound porch – an outside inside kind of place that goes clear around the house like a skirt – a place where kids and adults can run round in circles to their hearts’ content.
So whenever I pass this particular house, with the spectacular, but not quite wraparound porch, I always sigh just a bit with longing. For in my imagining, somehow, the wraparound porch, evan an almost one, is the embodiment of the perfect life.
Odd that I never see anyone on the porch.
Maybe I drive by at the wrong times.
Or maybe they’ve just forgotten what a magic place a porch really is.
I sure hope not.