A photo essay about missing my parents’ house (and envying the crap out of their new deck).
(This is 1/4 of the front yard. See the tiny brown smudge at the top of the picture? That’s where my parents live. I live in a 2-br apartment in the middle of concrete, with trains running two blocks away every 20 minutes. You understand my longing.)
(The backyard, where camp-outs and easter-egg hunts have taken place. Again, only about 1/4 of it. The barn used to house sheep–sadly, before I developed my fiber addiction–a horse, a wonderful golden retriever, barn swallows, and various woodchucks who met an early death after innocently poking their heads out from under the barn at the exact moment when my Dad was looking out the back door. Timing is everything in life.)
(The new deck, which I covet. The old deck was lovely, but this one has an octagon–charmingly suggested by my Uncle David, much to the delight of my mother and the chagrin of my father.)
(Taken just beyond the front door.)
(Taken from the octagon (I so want to host UFC events now, in
our their octagon)… the seating at the far end is just outside my parents’ bedroom.)
And–I can’t boast enough about this–the whole deck was designed and built by my very own Dad. He had help building it (and Uncle David did suggest the octagon), but he designed it and made it the thing of beauty that it is. My Dad. My Dad. He’s the very best. I love him tons and tons.
All this happened on Saturday, when I went home for half a day (I only live about an hour from my parents). Also happening that day were: apple orchard trip and The Finding Of The Perfect Wedding Dress. More on that later.