This is not the actual house, but it's as close an example as I could find online and modify, and unfortunately fuzzy. By "double house" I mean that he original family added a mirror image to the house when their son married and had a family. It had two front doors, two stairways, two huge chimneys, four fireplaces, and lots of eccentricities that delighted us no end.
Up on the hill behind the house stood a nice big reddish barn which had belonged once to the house, but was now used by a neighboring farmer to house his supplies and livestock, including chattery chickens and a handful of pigs.
Some wishes come true, and one of mine was to live in a place like that, and another was to have a creek running through my yard and a weeping willow tree. Well, all those wishes were wrapped up in this unrestored house in the folds of rich farmland not far from historic Valley Forge and King of Prussia and Audubon.
From the porch on a summer evening we could watch the thunder storms gathering across the Perkiomen Creek valley toward Valley Forge. The sky would turn almost brown and amazing flashes of lightening would crackle up through the dark mass. The sultry humid stillness would stir and the upper leaves of our hardwoods would turn their grayish bottoms up as the breeze picked up.
There was a long, knotted rope swing on the ancient chestnut tree off to the left of the porch, and the sweep of that swing spanned a really breathlessly steep section of the front yard. My five and seven year old girls had determinedly suffered past blisters and now had callused little hands, teaching themselves to do graceful acrobatic antics on that swing-- solos and duets with spins and twirls and pointed toes and dramatic finales. Sitting on the porch with our jolly infant son springing around in his jumper chair -- well, it was hard to improve on the feeling of well-being.
The railing was just right so that if you set the rocker in the right spot you could prop your feet up without blocking the view of the coming storm. Then the flashes and thunder would get closer and closer together so that it was time to call in the girls away from the tall trees.
We would all wait for the storm to rumble across the top of the hill across the road and then the rain would come misting and chase itself up our hill. The wind would buffet our weeping willow tree so it "hung" sideways.
Whipping up the creek bed and ruffling the grasses of the pasture then sheets of new rain would slick the colors of summer into a glowing concoction of greens and yellows and pinks and blues and grays. We would let the rain wet us down-- glad for the cool-down, and glad for the drama, and glad for the beauty.
Then it was a matter of holding our ears, running inside, with the screen door slamming behind us, to get away from deafening thunder claps. We were washed, cooled down, renewed and rewarded. The porch was getting a good washing and it was bath time and story time for the children.
After dark I would stand again on the porch and listen to the dripping from the trees and watch the fireflies signal to each other. I know the folks who loved that porch before me, and I know the folks who love it now. Same porch, same storms, same bit of bliss. But I happen to know that the fields are getting full of new houses, and there are commuters who stream along the road now. We know we were lucky.
There are other stories about that porch -- about ten years worth. The Owl. The Big Storm. The Turkeys, and The Lamb. The Gray Kittens. The Young Driver. Hippity-Hops and Pogo Sticks.
About the house too: the Gramaphone, "Tiny", the Halloween Party and the Youth Group, The Parolee, The Rat, The Piano and the Smith and Wesson. Berhanu and Mazengia, The Cousin from England.. Lots of stories.
I hope I can tell them all before I forget them!
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