Abandoned

As I drive along the highways, sometimes I pass  a house that was abandoned long ago. It would look pretty good if somebody took a hand and my fingers itch to buy it, re-furbish it, make it stand proud and solid once again. Just daydreaming, you know, because for a few seconds I see it outside my car window and then it’s gone.

Chimneys are the last to tumble down, if a house has a fireplace. That’s appropriate, seems to me. The fireplace is the heart of the home, the warmth center, and the fireplace watches over the sad remains until it can stand no longer.

I always wonder about the family who lived in the old house. Were they happy? Did the walls echo laughter and love or did sadness seep into the very boards? Why did they leave? And why doesn’t anyone care that the house needed help a long time ago?

What is even more heart-wrenching are old barns that are falling down because nobody builds barns like that any more.  When they are gone, they vanish forever. Now, that raises my ire because usually the barn sits fairly near to a house where someone is still living. I want to go to the homeowner’s door, knock, and say, “Hey! Don’t you realize what a relic of history is sitting out there in the pasture? If you’d fix the roof, the barn could be saved. Get up. Get out there. Get busy!”

Of course, I don’t do that. I just think about it and I drive on by, an onlooker with an opinion. But, that barn or house may appear in my next book. I’ll give them a history and a hope. I’ll weave a story around them. That’s what writers do.