Welcome to Fiction Friday. The Spoon River of Houses is about to come to an end. To see all of the Fiction Friday Posts go to Fiction-Friday.com Today, the Carriage House will speak.
I am the Carriage House that sits right next to the Story Mill House. I must be on the historical register but I can’t read the sign from here. I am falling apart, too.
I am right across from where the kids wait for the school bus in the morning. Up the street a green house still sells plants for gardeners and landscapers in and around town.
The green house hoped like crazy that when the Yellowstone millionaires bought the Mill House and most of the land as far as I can see, they would get the landscape contracts and sell the trees and bushes that would go in as the place was developed.
It hasn’t happened.
I am barn red painted.
I do not think I have had a carriage parked here for about a century. But I have been useful and am often photographed and painted on canvas more than once. I am at my very best as the setting sun shines on me during that part of spring time marked by baby green. Morning sun is hidden by the foot hills behind me.
My path is over grown but still easy to make out. Like the mill house, I don’t think they can flatten me and rebuild. It must be easier to do nothing and let nature take her course.
It is fun to listen to the little kids as they wait for the bus on cool spring mornings.
They put in a stop sign on the corner a few years back.
I’ve got to go, a kid just ducked in to sneak a cigarette.
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Carriage House