We live across the road from a fairytale house, a little gnome home. Unlike our austere, upright colonial which has scarcely changed its expression since 1796, this house grew up over centuries, with several discrete rooflines and an assortment of windows. The original brick house was built in 1792 by the owner of the mill powered by the waterfall in the sideyard. Once a straight white rectangle, the primary structure has settled comfortably into the ground; its shingled roof mimics the uneven foundation line where house meets earth. It is hard to imagine the windows were ever square; they sit at crazy angles now, their twenty-four small panes framed by mustard colored shutters, each hanging at its own tilt. A narrow, sheltered red door flanked by rusty lanterns is never opened. Instead, a deep, shaded alcove closer to the barn serves as the front door, its granite steps lined with rangey potted plants, statuary in various stages of deterioration. A weathered old fireplace mantle leans against a corner; a tufted old gray cat crouches on the top step, waiting to be admitted.
This morning the squat chimney in the center of the oldest roof was puffing pale gray smoke into the pale grey morning sky. Frosty skeletons rose behind the house - white birches, tall firs, a weepy willow. A clapboard section of the cottage with a bulging bay window sits uncomfortably between between the original bricks and the attached barn. Its straight roof and flat-topped gable are awkwardly out of place between the undulating roof lines of the older house and white barn whose rippling roof is half covered with creeping green moss, amplifying the impression that the house simply arose out of the ground. Its wide sliding door has a smaller, hinged door cut into it, curved at the top like a picture from Hansel and Gretel. Another iron- hinged door and two uneven windows punctuate the clapboards. The barn leans slightly to the right as if falling into the yard which drops away toward the brook. A rickety fence follows the slope of the hillside in stairstep fashion, petering away into the hoary, white, leaf-naked woods.
This afternoon we went snowshoeing behind the fairy house, in the fairy woods. We awakened to snow this morning, which immediately called to mind both Jack Frost and Robert Frost, poet of the northern New England landscape. The snow fell softly all day until we ventured out at mid-afternoon. The light was already purple, hinting at the early nightfall which would soon envelop the woods. We walked past the heavily laden, giant pines, tramped our way through leafless, fragile bushes, stepped awkwardly over fallen trees and slid gingerly down hills before we leapt over small brooks, still running black and noisy in the midst of the snow. We picked our way through the wreck of an old barn, its beams frosted with snow, and stopped to watch the spray of a waterfall rushing over a frozen bank. We peered down into an abandoned empty well and scrambled past a rusty old swingset thrown away a child's lifetime ago. Even that cheap, rusty piece of detritus looked mysterious and evocative under its snowy drape.
Though we tramped about for an hour, we were never very far from home, and when we turned toward our neighbor's cottage we caught a glimpse of our own house across the road.The scene could have been a hundred years old or more - two ancient, white houses with candles visible in the windows. If you ignored the cars in the drive, you could imagine yourself coming home for dinner in 1930, 1900, 1850, or even 1800. The woods, the road, the houses, the waterfall would all be there. The snow is timeless, too.
This morning the squat chimney in the center of the oldest roof was puffing pale gray smoke into the pale grey morning sky. Frosty skeletons rose behind the house - white birches, tall firs, a weepy willow. A clapboard section of the cottage with a bulging bay window sits uncomfortably between between the original bricks and the attached barn. Its straight roof and flat-topped gable are awkwardly out of place between the undulating roof lines of the older house and white barn whose rippling roof is half covered with creeping green moss, amplifying the impression that the house simply arose out of the ground. Its wide sliding door has a smaller, hinged door cut into it, curved at the top like a picture from Hansel and Gretel. Another iron- hinged door and two uneven windows punctuate the clapboards. The barn leans slightly to the right as if falling into the yard which drops away toward the brook. A rickety fence follows the slope of the hillside in stairstep fashion, petering away into the hoary, white, leaf-naked woods.
This afternoon we went snowshoeing behind the fairy house, in the fairy woods. We awakened to snow this morning, which immediately called to mind both Jack Frost and Robert Frost, poet of the northern New England landscape. The snow fell softly all day until we ventured out at mid-afternoon. The light was already purple, hinting at the early nightfall which would soon envelop the woods. We walked past the heavily laden, giant pines, tramped our way through leafless, fragile bushes, stepped awkwardly over fallen trees and slid gingerly down hills before we leapt over small brooks, still running black and noisy in the midst of the snow. We picked our way through the wreck of an old barn, its beams frosted with snow, and stopped to watch the spray of a waterfall rushing over a frozen bank. We peered down into an abandoned empty well and scrambled past a rusty old swingset thrown away a child's lifetime ago. Even that cheap, rusty piece of detritus looked mysterious and evocative under its snowy drape.
Though we tramped about for an hour, we were never very far from home, and when we turned toward our neighbor's cottage we caught a glimpse of our own house across the road.The scene could have been a hundred years old or more - two ancient, white houses with candles visible in the windows. If you ignored the cars in the drive, you could imagine yourself coming home for dinner in 1930, 1900, 1850, or even 1800. The woods, the road, the houses, the waterfall would all be there. The snow is timeless, too.
