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I won’t be celebrating the holidays on Brokeback Manor this year. Thanksgiving has come and gone, and Christmas is about to do the same. Though I do look good in my red and black plaid jacket, the wild turkey population will be safe for one more year, as well as all neighboring forests. (Speaking of being safe, who would have thought that one would be safer in Afghanistan than in a shopping mall on Black Friday?) Needless to say, my country squire fantasy will have to be on hold for one more season—hope I can cancel my British racing-green Range Rover order.
I will spare you all another wide-angle photo of my view—nothing new to show on the house. I’m going there tomorrow, and maybe I’ll return with a photo album full of progress pictures. At this point, I’d be grateful for a window mullion or two. Maybe I should have started smaller. I could have begun with a dog house for Biggs, and later put on an extension for me. Of course this would only work if we had compatible taste. What if she wanted an Italianate palazzo or a cozy cottage. Oh well, I’m flexible. God knows what my architect, Joan, would say, or even worse, David Mann or Laura Bohn?
“Lassie get home!” “Casa Chow Belle!”