It’s January, and I live in Snow Country. But for some reason we’re having a thunderstorm. With lightning. Molly Dog is headed upstairs. For some reason she always goes up to the boys’ room when there is thunder and lightning. Why she thinks the attic, with its roof windows, is the safest port I cannot understand.
Sam used to follow along, back in his puppy days. But he is a big Man Dog now and holds his ground on the first floor.
I believe this really ought to be snow. Molly agrees. Lovely, quiet snow would certainly be preferable.
When the atmospheric conditions are not to your liking, where do you go? When the emotional pressure is barometrically inappropriate, what is your safe place?
This house has been my safe place. When we moved here, my world had been spinning off its axis for two or three years. I first saw the house almost eight years ago, on a day when snow covered the ground. It was a little the worse for wear, but so was I, and it had lovely features even if some people didn’t appreciate them. It took two months of scrubbing, sanding, gutting, painting and finishing to make it livable. I took a little longer, but by the time we moved in, I was better. This was the place I learned to keep my feet on the ground again. It always feels good to be here, even when the storms rage outside.