One recent morning, as it happens every once I a while, I
was standing and thinking just how much I loved my home and being here in it.
Not to pat myself on the back or toot my own horn, but I like what we have as
furnishings - the furniture Frank has made, the artwork and treasures we’ve
collected or been given over the years, and the way it’s decorated.
I pride myself on being a minimalist. There’s room to spread
out in our closets, dresser drawers, pantry, and fridge shelves. I’ve not
family pictures all over the place nor too many tchotchkes to dust. But on a lark one morning, I went around and
counted all the things we have hanging on the walls. There the minimalism ends.
Total count, and a lot of nail holes, 232! (26 of them are needleworks made for
us by someone we dearly love.) Sounds like it might be a mishmash, but it all
pleases us no end.
Our house is just a suburban box on a relatively small lot,
like hundreds of others in this community of “active adults.” We’ve been here
ten years, and wouldn’t want to move. We’ll just age in place and enjoy all the
lovely things that make our home ours.
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