A few days ago, I was astonished when I went to Manon’s site and discovered that she had redesigned her site. I adored the new design the moment my browser finished loading. The breathtaking picture of a garden and the vibrant shades of green stole my breath away. Then, to quote a certain musical, “a memory stirred” as I continued to gaze at the home page. I was reminded of a “green place” of my own.
This place is a cottage at the edge of the Allegheny River, not too far from my college. Friends of my family own this cottage, and as the friendship is a long and close one, my family is permitted to stay there whenever we like. The cottage is made of wood and has a comfortable, solid feel to it. It is a perfect to place to eat, sleep, or devour a good book.
The best part of the cottage, though, is what lies outside of it. There is an immense forest behind it. This forest is composed of different types of towering trees, intermixed with delicate ferns. There is a semblance of a path through the forest here, but the truth path lies farther down the stone road that leads to the cottage. I’ve spent many a day wandering aimlessly through this forest. The solitude allows me to step back from the chaotic world and appreciate the simplicity of nature. The greenness starts a waterfall of ideas for poetry and stories. Alas, nine times out of ten, these works never actually appear on paper, but it proves to me that my muse isn’t dead or visiting Cuba.
In my wanderings through the forest, I discovered some neat things. In one section, there is a grapevine that is heavy enough to swing upon. The way it is positioned on the path makes it a little awkward to cling to, but if you jump high enough, you can get a decent swing going. A short distance past the grapevine, you can find two small streams. If you go deep enough into the woods, you can see several large rocks that are perfect for climbing, picnicking, or both. There is always something new to be discovered – if you pay attention and look hard enough.
In front of the cottage is a vast yard. In one corner, there is a flowerbed with daylilies and other plants of that ilk. To the right of the flowerbed is a huge maple tree with a delightful swing dangling from a thick branch. Down past the tree is a wooden glider. From this glider, you get a perfect view of the river. I have many fond memories of playing in the yard. When I was younger, I’d practice my cartwheels and dance steps. cavorting all about. When the children of the family friends were here, we’d play all sorts of games, from baseball to it-tag. We’d run races and jump into the river. Now, the children and I still play, but more often than not, we leave each other to our own devices. Alan plays game-boy while his sister Annie draws or reads. I seek a sunny spot to read or write.
I have nothing but good memories about this place. The time spent here was magical, full of exciting adventures and tender bonding moments. I had deep conversations with my father by the fireside. I remember picking out a book from the bookshelf in the living room of the cottage and becoming completely absorbed in it. My friends and I amused ourselves by acting out the complete version of “The Phantom of the Opera”, complete with music and the swinging chandelier. My parents, whatever their personal disagreements with each other, were happy here. I was happy here.
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