Why I still Need a Chair

I walk down town to pick up beer and a sandwich, and decided on the long way home, Vine to Hill, to Dewey Street.

Pine is a tidy street, neat brick homes from the Thirties and even older frame ones. It rises up Church Hill with a tamarack in one yard, a sumac in the next, and I think old magnolias covered in white blossoms near the top. At Ghost Boy's house there is a rabbit under his swing, another two houses down. They are wild hare, but not so wild as to bolt. Their backs are flecked with white spots, and mottled with tiny pools of red.

Part way up is an old rocker set out for the trash. Now I could use a broken in rocker, and have no lady folk to be riled with my taking it in. It is gray and comfortable looking, but I have to weigh the coast of taking it home. Now any fool would tell you that free rockers don't come along every day, and that evening walks do, but that is why they would be just any fool, for the saying of it. Walks, a good walk, where the world tags along whispering it secrets to you, and the evening sky hums with the turning of the orb into night, those are rare, and well worth the price of fifty free chairs. My feet make up my mind for me, and I continue up to Hill street.

It is a short street, tiny white frame homes from the Forties line it. They are neat and well loved, There is less clover in these yards than on Vine, and the trees are healthy mid-aged maples. Two old men stand in a small driveway disusing the troubles of the world.

I see a thunderhead catching the last light of the day on its anvil, orange and pink, and have to stand in the heat and watch it. In the West, above the wood, red glows on odd spots in the clouds, giving it the look of a great fire. The evening comes on, but no coolness with it.

My feet take me down onto Dewey street. I love to walk this lane, great old houses, some worn and poorly loved, with flaking paint on their ginger bread, others at least a reflection of there past splendor. There is the Imperial oak, bigger than any home, almost taller than any building in Town. Just beyond are the sister maples, giants in there own right. They will cover the whole street when fall comes. A worn out dog watches me with faded interest. A fat tabby floats across a yard, spots of white in the almost dark, giving me only a tail flick like a royal wave. Faint stars show where the clover flowers are hiding in the shadows.

At the end of Dewey is the grand house, not the largest, but made by someone who loved the building of houses, and knew how to show it. Brick and wood are set to working together, holding crystal windows, bright eyes looking out into the world. The great front window is never draped. Capped with etched panes and beveled, it is beautiful. It invites my eyes in to the warm light of the living room. A young girl is cleaning there. In one slow glance I feel the glow the place always gives, and I turn onto my drive.

The beer is warm and the sandwich cold, but I don't care.