Hideaway Hill’s Folly


Sometimes it’s not the house or building that’s the folly. Sometimes it is what  inside of it that is-

Blue Room – Linden Frederick


My house

had  bright green trim

and the gutters always leaked.


There was an apple tree in the front yard

and cherry trees in the back yard and a holly tree

at the bottom of the yard with my initials carved into the trunk.


My house fit into our street

much better then I  ever did

there was nothing about me that was like anyone else

I was built wrong, colored wrong, I was damaged and worn and chipped

and when I moved away, I’m sure my house was very relived.


I think it  feels like a real home now but I’ll bet the gutters still leak.

Big Hair

RDP Thursday: ZENITH

When I was in high school, I was kind of a wreck.

I wore the wrong clothes, listened to the wrong music, I was a creepy geek who had long wild hair, wore black eyeshadow before it was a ” thing “. I played guitar in a rock band and believe it or not I was on the Honor Roll and my best subjects were Biology, Russian History and Creative Writing.

But like I said, I was freak.

At least that’s what I heard from my nearest and dearest and the obnoxious wonks I went to school with.

Out of nowhere this girl who sat  behind me in math used to tell me I should cut my hair- it was long and curly and wavy ( a la’ Ann Margaret who was my HERO ). Sometimes my snotty seatmate would even make snarky comments about my dark makeup too.

” Maybe ” my friend Leni  from Library sciences said ” she’s hot for you. ”

” Maybe ” I remember saying ” you shouldn’t do drugs before school. ”

I actually did cut my hair, no kidding I did it because some of the guys I played music with cared so much about their hair ( we were headed for the big hair bands at that time in the early 80’s ) that I felt like I was over the entire long hair experience. Everyone had long curly hair now.

And I did not want to be part of the herd.

A good ten years after I graduated from high school  I was coaching my son’s soccer team ( yep, I played soccer too ) and at our first practice I met the parents.

You know where this is going right?

There she was, with her son ( who was a cute kid and turned out to be heck of a goalie )- my seatmate who rode my back about my ‘rats nest’ hair and black eyeshadow and nagged me at least once a week- why did I wear a leather jacket in the summer-

she stopped when I turned around and she saw my face- and her face turned red  under her long curly spiral permed hair and dark eyeshadow. I wondered if she was sweating inside of her leather jacket, because it was a hot and bright August afternoon.

Speaking from experience she was.

My Sleeping House


Gertrude Abercrombie

Brush away the cobwebs from  the dark corners in my attic?

Sweep away the dust that twinkles like far away stars in an inky black midnight sky from my cracked windows and scarred woodwork?

Open the doors, all of the doors even the ones that creak  and squeak on their rusted hinges all on their own?

Why on Earth would I take a broom to my house and risk waking it up? Can you tell me? Why would I do that?


Even a dead house deserves to rest in peace

no matter how awful it was in life.