I have never owned a house/home . As I read this story , I ponder if the reason I never really owned one was because I have never truly felt like I belonged anywhere. Rethinking my nomadic lifestyle. Food for thought.
Damn it, Mike, you made me cry about that rock house on this Sunday morning. I really do enjoy your longer reads. I know they’re a lot more work for you, but they’re like beautiful short stories for me. Your ability to make me visualize everything you write about and make me feel all of the things id so appreciated.
I am thankful for an island life, talks over the fence, in the driveway and at the mailbox. I feel the blessing of island community one stone at a time...🌹 Thank you for another thought provoking piece.
This is so fitting for me. When my family moved into the neighborhood, the doorbell started ringing. Our neighbor, Dorothy, with a welcome mat, woman from 2 doors down brownies from a local bakery, the other neighbors with a from scratch lemon marangue pie. It was SO welcome and yet seemed so odd. Everyone waves to each other. We have a mix of older residents and younger families. We help out each other when we can, and when an ambulance arrives at one of the older friend's homes, we hold our breath waiting for news. It was such a shock, but has been lovely getting used to it.
Mike, this resonates with me to my very core. It's goal worthy, it's inspiring, it's motivating. It gives us All pause. A concept to reflect, evaluate, absorb, and act upon.
The head and the heart, in synchronization.
Our lives, our democracy, our world can benefit and thrive when we Carry. Each. Other's. Stones. With Kindness.
This beautifully written story made me cry. I had no idea where it was going and I cried. In my perfect world the new owners will read this, and build a solid stable wall in honor of this grieving family. A wall that people still may be comfortable adding their own rock in memory. But no one’s world is perfect, is it?
I grew up in a small neighborhood where everybody knew everybody. There were older couples, young, families. You couldn't go anywhere without someone noticing you. My dad would rev up the rototiller every spring and walk up and down the street, tending to the pre-spring gardens of anyone that needed. The neighbors took me to church every Sunday. When my dad was widowed at a young age, it wasn't just frozen casseroles. Everyone did a little bit to help him figure out how to raise an 8 y/o. During the school year, I went across the street for breakfast every day, as he was worried about me using a toaster. I still remember what we had each day of the week. Garage sales, where most of the kids just wanted the famous whoopee pies. Snowball fights across streets, snow igloos, on and on. Now? We rarely converse or gather with neighbors. We're the newer residents of the street, but it's different.
This was lovely. We've lived in the same house now for 35-years, and the lawn service thing is really a thing. We still mow our own and that is how and where we met most of our neighbors. Now we have a neighbor who flies an "Impeach Biden" sign, and every Thursday the peace is shattered by an army of yard service workers and their mowers and leaf blowers. There are a lot of "new people" we never see and don't know. Sigh.
Beautiful...
What a beautifully written story...
I have never owned a house/home . As I read this story , I ponder if the reason I never really owned one was because I have never truly felt like I belonged anywhere. Rethinking my nomadic lifestyle. Food for thought.
Exactly, we *should* help carry each other's stones. <3
What a beautiful piece. Like you all those years you drive by the house, I didn’t see where this was going. I love your writing.
Wow. Just beautiful.
Damn it, Mike, you made me cry about that rock house on this Sunday morning. I really do enjoy your longer reads. I know they’re a lot more work for you, but they’re like beautiful short stories for me. Your ability to make me visualize everything you write about and make me feel all of the things id so appreciated.
I am thankful for an island life, talks over the fence, in the driveway and at the mailbox. I feel the blessing of island community one stone at a time...🌹 Thank you for another thought provoking piece.
This is so fitting for me. When my family moved into the neighborhood, the doorbell started ringing. Our neighbor, Dorothy, with a welcome mat, woman from 2 doors down brownies from a local bakery, the other neighbors with a from scratch lemon marangue pie. It was SO welcome and yet seemed so odd. Everyone waves to each other. We have a mix of older residents and younger families. We help out each other when we can, and when an ambulance arrives at one of the older friend's homes, we hold our breath waiting for news. It was such a shock, but has been lovely getting used to it.
This is such a wonderful telling of the story. Where have we lost the world we knew, where we had solid community?
" We should help carry each other's stones."
Mike, this resonates with me to my very core. It's goal worthy, it's inspiring, it's motivating. It gives us All pause. A concept to reflect, evaluate, absorb, and act upon.
The head and the heart, in synchronization.
Our lives, our democracy, our world can benefit and thrive when we Carry. Each. Other's. Stones. With Kindness.
This beautifully written story made me cry. I had no idea where it was going and I cried. In my perfect world the new owners will read this, and build a solid stable wall in honor of this grieving family. A wall that people still may be comfortable adding their own rock in memory. But no one’s world is perfect, is it?
I grew up in a small neighborhood where everybody knew everybody. There were older couples, young, families. You couldn't go anywhere without someone noticing you. My dad would rev up the rototiller every spring and walk up and down the street, tending to the pre-spring gardens of anyone that needed. The neighbors took me to church every Sunday. When my dad was widowed at a young age, it wasn't just frozen casseroles. Everyone did a little bit to help him figure out how to raise an 8 y/o. During the school year, I went across the street for breakfast every day, as he was worried about me using a toaster. I still remember what we had each day of the week. Garage sales, where most of the kids just wanted the famous whoopee pies. Snowball fights across streets, snow igloos, on and on. Now? We rarely converse or gather with neighbors. We're the newer residents of the street, but it's different.
This was lovely. We've lived in the same house now for 35-years, and the lawn service thing is really a thing. We still mow our own and that is how and where we met most of our neighbors. Now we have a neighbor who flies an "Impeach Biden" sign, and every Thursday the peace is shattered by an army of yard service workers and their mowers and leaf blowers. There are a lot of "new people" we never see and don't know. Sigh.
You consistently overwhelm me with your writing. Thanks, Hoarse!