“Write as if you were dying. At the same time, assume you write for an audience consisting solely of terminal patients. That is, after all, the case. What would you begin writing if you knew you would die soon?” Annie Dillard

It was a writer's house, strange and beautiful. A huge window in the living room where once ball lightening had once struck.

An elegant woman's hand, the doorknocker. Aren't you going to take it with you? No, she said. It belongs with the house. Phyllis's Folly, is what the home was lovingly dubbed.

All places are not the same. Travel will teach that lesson, over and over again.

The scent of their home; wood conditioner formula used on the paneled walls inside, aromas co-mingled of sausage gravy, food (she was a great cook) and cigarette smoke. Over the sink in the kitchen, another window looking out to the creek, below eye level with the road across the creek. Sam's cabin over there, above the sightline of the house. Disconcerting, levels. The next home down looked like space ships that had landed.

Her hands after washing dishes in the big sink with a view; the jade of the ring offset with diamonds that “Beautiful” had gifted her. Strands of hair plucked from her hand; she kept her locks long, in ponytails. Vivid in the mind's eye, seen now.

“Will it matter that I was” is something she'd say–and that sticks. Have looked for the attribution, cannot find. Important that the context be written down.
Yes, it will matter and does. Remembering you, Phyllis.

Books. The essay written when leaving the house, yours.

The story of a copperhead beneath a car seat that struck a forearm when disturbed is remembered, too.

And a little boy helping shoveling out the stall and using the deep window to throw it on a growing pile, his look of utter disgust when he realized what he was shoveling was… manure.

The wooden crate box that floated downstream and was pulled in to then become a sea chest, transformed by Dad (can we turn it upside down, use the bottom as a top, add legs?) Yes, he could and did. Added a broken twisted snaffle bit as the latch. Sanded and smoothed, added Virginia barn board as the new bottom. Forever recalled as the sit upon in the International Scout he drove from Florida to Roanoke and after a layover, to Connecticut. Annie sat on it the whole way. The section through Atlanta was memorable as we followed the truck pulling a four-horse trailer and all household goods loaded in the first two sections. Horse rumps and liquid that was expelled. Dad deploying the air bleed wipers and cracking up. He could drive the ranks manual. But the seats were literally wood covered with vinyl, and he walked a little crunched over…for awhile afterwards. Understood.

In Pennsylvania somewhere we stopped for a rest break and he came out from McDonald's with a new offering–chicken McNuggets. Man, they were good.

The eight-track and the one tape played–Grandpa Jones, Ol' Rattler was one. Now if the others can be recalled.

The rural South, a revelation. Slave cabins still standing. Red earth. Kudzu. Trucks stops and great breakfasts, grits. (Mouth watering.) Country ham. Southern-fried chicken so good and such courtesy. Through western Virginia, karst landscapes. Oh, the beauty driving down Bent Mountain. Vertical landscapes. Homes of logs and white chinking, metal roofs.

Down the mountain to a different climate because the valley. Salem and pastures where the first shell (brachiopod) fossil was found. Astonishment.

A three-sided log structure shelter barn that became a retreat. That durn hammer-headed pig-eyed horse–it would run straight at a person in the pasture that ran for acres–and not veer off like a normal horse would. Rescued off a slaughter pen truck, the horse lived in equine paradise–acres and acres of pasture, an old house on the hill and flanked by mountains, a stream running through it all. Food, vet care, a herd to run with. Penny and Gypsy. Why were they sold, given away. Ignorance. Could've grown old with that horses, those horses. Always moving, moving, relocating, roots starts, grown–gotta move. Why.

Metal axes hung in/on a tree, a scraped platform to gaze out across the way. The long-dead tree felled with and bow saw–it toppled across the driveway from the hill. Heh. Jimmy stopped his car (was it a Maverick?) and helped move the long-dead tree, seasoned as it stood. Cut, split. Then split into smaller sections with an axe.

Spoons carved from its bulk. A mushroom ladle. Cross slices of smaller branches became slices of wooden apples, ornaments that year. One that looked like a bird. The shape of the branch was the form that determined what became of it. Wanted to see if it was possible and it was to use a bow saw to fell a large tree. And it was possible, probable and an accomplishment referred to many, many times since. Try.

The, a scattering of lawn chairs in the living room because another move; U.S. Navy, naval aviation. Packing, packing.

Long ago, but many times it all doesn't feel that way. Chapters that can be paged back to, riffled and then put back on the shelf.

Write.

Or it's all water that flows and goes. Catch it with words and images.

Now for a different former farmhouse, history, some barns and observations, walks.

The farmhouse and barn, page detail from an album on site about Hammonasset history.

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— Moo Dog Press (@moodogpress.com) February 22, 2025 at 5:50 PM

After snow, ice. Barn back is broken.

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— Moo Dog Press (@moodogpress.com) February 27, 2025 at 1:41 PM

Eli Whitney barn door within a door. #adoorable

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— Moo Dog Press (@moodogpress.com) February 27, 2025 at 12:40 PM

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— Moo Dog Press (@moodogpress.com) February 25, 2025 at 3:28 PM

Editor's note: This story has been updated. Thank you Tish for all your work, Island of Misfits. Best wishes in your next endeavor. Forever grateful.