8:154) Ginny Little 18-MAR-98 11:31

first time a house has felt a home for me. a year and one month and counting in the creation. inspectors and high paid workers who don't take pride in workmanship. stairwells and drywall and paint and saw and hammer. i touch it with my own art, perwinkle blues and butter yellow, black wallpaper with forest ivy vines, cherry red woodstove. my oils lean against walls, next to black and white faded family portraits and i know both my artist's heart and the heritage i come from. i hope they are watching. i miss them and sometimes hear their faint laughter. i paint old medicine cabinets blue grey and white liking new brightness. we survive the noise, dust and mistakes, only yelling when we are too tired, and we lay in grandmother's bed at night and look at the church stained glass window over the stairwell, and the expanse of creation. i know the trees curves and the feel of bark and where the crocus will bloom. abbey plays in the front yard in the mud, white face black. i hear the train whistle in the distance that i heard from my grandmother's back yard at night, along with grasshoppers through the open summer window. i have finally come home and i will not move again. but i will always wander.