When New Doors Open
For years I’ve wished for a windowed front door that looks east to face the rising sun of morning. This way, all corners of my house could be bathed in golden light between the hours of 8-11 a.m. A nice humble wish, I think. Anyway, Peter Sherowski came through town this past weekend and obliged, spending two whole days sawing, shimmying, clipping ancient siding, and generally sweating just to wedge that fresh oak front door in. If you care about these sorts of things, then you’ll understand that it’s a cut above my 50s-era metal security door—about 100 cuts above, really.
While he was doing that, I tore down and rebuilt my living area. I don’t like painting. I’m not good at it—sloppy is what I’d call myself. But ya know like all those unavoidables in life, you do it if you have to.
Prehistoric art made by the children of yesteryear.
My best efforts at neatness and order.