Things I Covet

Turkey Gang, by Deb Marshall

I once rented an old farmhouse, back in the dark ages, simply because it had an entire room - with a window! - that was set up as a pantry. I could picture myself filling baskets with root vegetables, stacking pumpkins and winter squash under the table, keeping geraniums in pots on the window sill, while the cat curled up contentedly in a basket on a chair.  Fortunately, I came to my senses and got married, instead.

Still, sometimes other people have something I really, really want.

The Book Lady, for example, has three things I want:  an incredible front door that looks like it came out of a castle; a library room filled with actual, handsome stacks; and a herd of turkeys that visit every day at 4 pm looking for a hand-out. If she’s late hopping to it, the ballsy tom strides up to her French doors, glares in, and hammers on the door with his beak until they bring corn for him and his harem. I considered encouraging the local turkeys to see what they’d do at my house, but the few times they moseyed out of the woods to snack on winter sunflower seeds, Catmandoo, our generally benign, very large Lord of the Universe, was alarmed by their size, and the barkie boys had a great deal – a very great deal - to say about the invasion, repeatedly – so maybe not.

The Tall Dude also has rooms I want. He has a whole room filled with tables and counters and storage bins and shelves that he built to fit the exact needs of his many interests, and his chest freezer lives there, too. There’s custom storage for ski equipment, fencing equipment, canning gear, camping gear, and special counter space for his seed-starting set-up, ski waxing, and all manner of things – all perfectly designed. He also has a pantry room, with a sink in it – and off that, a root cellar. How often do you find a real root cellar, nowadays? I want it. And I want a few of the dozens of beautiful, elegant (and empty!) hornet’s nests that adorn his tall walls.

Hornet's Nest, by Deb Marshall

 There was a brass candlestick in my bedroom in the servant’s quarters, the college summer that I spent as the cook on an historic summer estate, that I really, really wanted. It was designed to adjust how much of the candle was lifted above the holder, and I was quite taken with the whole idea. Actually, I do have that candlestick…like I said, I was taken with it.

The Husband and I almost bought a house in Maine because it had a big room that surrounded its center chimney, with a clever, secret entrance. Artists had built the house, and it was a fair reproduction of an historic Cape, right down to not having a septic system. Well – technically it did: there was a buried VW Bug with the seats removed and the windows rolled slightly down that served the purpose, out back somewhere; the owners couldn’t quite remember where but we were sure to locate it sooner or later. The Husband wiped the fairy dust out of my eyes.

My best school friend’s house, built by her Grandpa, had a secret staircase that curled narrowly down from one of the bedrooms to the kitchen, where there was a door on the bottom stair making it look like a closet.  Her mom used the lowest stairs to store canned goods, and the kids used the whole stairway to spy on the adults. I thought it was the coolest thing ever. Still do. 

In my Nana’s house, the window over the sink is split in the middle, and an old-fashioned latch holds the two sides together. In the summer, you can unlatch them and open the two sides out. I love that window; it reminds me of fairy princesses opening their windows to call out to people below, and of my Nana opening the window to call out to Brother and me as we passed beneath. There’s something much more elegant and lyrical about unlatching and pulling a window open, rather than shoving one up, or cranking one out. Mom (who now lives in Nan’s house) and I argue about whether she’s allowed to replace that window with a modern, energy-efficient one.

Eddie B., our out-back neighbor, had a whole house I wanted – and I could have had it, but he sold it recently. That house is like a magic box that opens into unexpected spaces, with multiple stairways and porches, little hidden rooms with unusual doorways, secret places for cat litter boxes, one stairway that looks like it’s taking you into a cave, big windows revealing lovely things outside, and a myriad of unusual details that only a builder with plenty of time and imagination could make for themselves. It is, absolutely, the most enchanting of houses.

But I have a house I love; and in the library live a banshee and a Chinese soldier that I’m quite attached to. So – sometimes, other people have something I really covet. But you don’t always get what you want…

Originally published in the Concord Monitor, April 15, 2017, as "Things I Covet."