Running Down A Dream

There is this house in town that I have fallen hard for. It is an old farmhouse on D Street entirely secluded and dwarfed behind weeping willows and tall green fir trees, the kind of fir trees where house fairies and wood nymphs and toadstools live. The roof is a steep A-line covered in moss and pine needles. The side entrance into the kitchen is a charming dutch door, a broom propped up against the frame. The front door is cherry red. Fallen leaves clutter the porch and inside a warm lamp glows. I'm fairly certain it smells like fresh bread inside. Fresh bread and lemon wood polish. Next to the house there is a stable and inside live three friendly old horses who clomp out to the fence to say hello to the passing school kids. In the winding driveway between the stable and the farmhouse live a barn cat and a baby blue Chevy pickup who has seen better days. Behind the house is a giant, grassy field. At night the tame neighborhood cats slip away from their cushy homes to become wild tigers there, prowling for mice in the moonlight.

This little house lives on my usual running path and so I pass it up to four times a week. I always look forward to seeing it and sometimes when I feel like I'm getting tired I use the house as motivation. Once I get to this house I let myself stop and walk slowly, to catch my breath and drink it all in.

Today as I headed out my front door to run the clouds gathered ominously and the air turned to chill. By the time I reached my farmhouse in the trees the rain had found a steady rhythm and beads were collecting on my forearms. I slowed to my usual walk at the pasture gate and then stopped for a minute to tie my shoe and watch my breath collect in the air before me. The white horse slowly made his way out of his warm stable to say hello, and as I reached through the fence to stroke his velvety nose I could suddenly see it all as if it were very real.

A house dress, hunter green wellies, thick wooly socks and a sweater coat,

out to feed the chickens and collect the eggs,

the barn cat coiling around my feet.

A fire burning in the farmhouse fireplace,

smoke billowing out into the wet early morning air,

the day's fresh bread baking in the oven,

home-canned preserves and sweet butter.

Long runs and quiet evenings,

a baby on my hip,

soothing and shushing and rocking and sleeping.

It was delicious.

The sky thundered and I woke from my day dream. I was soaked through with rain as I said goodbye-for-now to my equine friend and plodded along the last of my route, where a hot shower, a bowl of oatmeal, and an Internet connection awaited me at my little shoe box of a house on B.

We graduate in May and I think I've decided I'd stay here in Moscow, my dearest red husband, but only if I can have that farmhouse, some wellies, and a good assortment of house dresses.

 And a hen named Bossy if you please.