"This castle hath a pleasant seat; the air
Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself
Unto our gentle senses.”
Pictures of homes in magazines seduce me.
Would I want to live there flies into my mind and flies out of my mind, as I turn the page and see another mansion, a country house, a cottage tucked into the trees.
In my mind, I enter the huge elegant homes -- estates with monumental entrances -- explore attics, tread on the rambling porches, drive on the swirling driving ways, and applaud the swimming pools and gardens, as I'm calculating the number of rooms, baths, and kitchens, and estimating what it would cost to buy the place.
The price doesn't bother me. It's just part of my trip into another life.
I live in the tower room, pace on the widows' walk; I peek into the master bedrooms, check out the kitchen, the library, the sun-room, and bathrooms, estimating how many employees I'd need to maintain things.
Inside the house pictures, I am old-fashioned, and also renovated and up-to-date modern, as I'm using the latest practical conveniences. I am grandly, queenly rich, as I ponder how to clean all those windows looking out onto other homes on the hills and in the valleys below the sky and the mountains I've never before seen.
In his book, "Who Owns the Mountains," Henry Van Dyke said "They were all ours, from crested cliff to wooded base"
Who owns the mountains the lawns, driveways, gardens, the mansions, country houses, cottages, all those castles tucked into the trees?
I do. I do.