A town like Salish was a sack filled with memories that bulged in irregular shapes against a common skin. How many generations still carried active recall of the old baseball field overgrown with thick grasses, and dangerous tunnels made by the vole families? Did it matter to anyone alive in 2016 that the musty halls that once played music of original R & B in the 1960's were too often empty of footfall let alone rhythm? The village still wore its original backbones though asphalt and concrete had indeed added much weight allowing more vehicle traffic up and down the two main streets of downtown.
"Houses have long memories. Do you believe that?" Larkin was digging into old letters and yellowed newspaper. A copy of an essay written by her grandmother's cousin had stirred the conversation. She held the book of women's essays written at the start of this century. Jacob sat across from her at one end of the faded corduroy couch, his graying beard wet with a long sip from one of the amber bottles of his ale. Larkin had one of the solid maple kitchen chairs facing him with her gran's metal box open between them. The smell of lavender had kept the paper and books from molding. The glamour of something else had kept the sprigs of herb fresh. She wondered what the magic might be, as old blossoms scattered from between the books and letters.
"I do believe a house remembers." His answer was spare. Of course those sorts of answers left so much room. The young woman loved that the wizard who did not advertise his facility with crossing between the layers of realities, and answered honestly with so few words. "My friend Rabbit has lived in, and lost, more houses than he can remember. Whether his houses remember him is another question all together."
"So do you think a house will remember everything that has ever happened as long as it remains?" The story Larkin was reading told about a woman who had returned to the house she was born in. Termites had eaten much of the house, but her grandmother's cousin had come with plans and a strong man who would rebuild the house. "When a house is changed, remodeled, does it keep the old memories and build new ones just as a wall has some old boards next to new?"
"I think a house, or even, a common house, like a much loved and long-standing gathering place will retain the old and also have room in its character to grow new memories. It matters of course, that in the creation or changing of walls, a conscious respectfulness leads the hands, and hearts of the ones making change. Take for example, this time right now. You and I are sitting together while rains soak the forest around us. Tall Ones soak as well. They know there is more light coming. Their timing, their calendars are precise. Internal you see." Jacob's smile not common but oh so generous lit his face. It was Winter Solstice. "The promise of more light comes because we trust it will come."
"For a house, like this one," Jacob paused to look at the open beams and simple structure of Calypso's two story cottage. "Made from the wood of ones that once stood rooted with heads up into the sky they have memory for keeping the heartwood dry ... protected in all the most meaningful ways. That is a memory that sustains the house."
Larkin nodded.
"Yes," Jacob took another sip. The two toasted to "Wet Solstice, dry wood."
"Houses have long memories. Do you believe that?" Larkin was digging into old letters and yellowed newspaper. A copy of an essay written by her grandmother's cousin had stirred the conversation. She held the book of women's essays written at the start of this century. Jacob sat across from her at one end of the faded corduroy couch, his graying beard wet with a long sip from one of the amber bottles of his ale. Larkin had one of the solid maple kitchen chairs facing him with her gran's metal box open between them. The smell of lavender had kept the paper and books from molding. The glamour of something else had kept the sprigs of herb fresh. She wondered what the magic might be, as old blossoms scattered from between the books and letters.
"I do believe a house remembers." His answer was spare. Of course those sorts of answers left so much room. The young woman loved that the wizard who did not advertise his facility with crossing between the layers of realities, and answered honestly with so few words. "My friend Rabbit has lived in, and lost, more houses than he can remember. Whether his houses remember him is another question all together."
"So do you think a house will remember everything that has ever happened as long as it remains?" The story Larkin was reading told about a woman who had returned to the house she was born in. Termites had eaten much of the house, but her grandmother's cousin had come with plans and a strong man who would rebuild the house. "When a house is changed, remodeled, does it keep the old memories and build new ones just as a wall has some old boards next to new?"
"I think a house, or even, a common house, like a much loved and long-standing gathering place will retain the old and also have room in its character to grow new memories. It matters of course, that in the creation or changing of walls, a conscious respectfulness leads the hands, and hearts of the ones making change. Take for example, this time right now. You and I are sitting together while rains soak the forest around us. Tall Ones soak as well. They know there is more light coming. Their timing, their calendars are precise. Internal you see." Jacob's smile not common but oh so generous lit his face. It was Winter Solstice. "The promise of more light comes because we trust it will come."
"For a house, like this one," Jacob paused to look at the open beams and simple structure of Calypso's two story cottage. "Made from the wood of ones that once stood rooted with heads up into the sky they have memory for keeping the heartwood dry ... protected in all the most meaningful ways. That is a memory that sustains the house."
Larkin nodded.
"Yes," Jacob took another sip. The two toasted to "Wet Solstice, dry wood."
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