Hollis Baker’s Blog

I am a house and I stand upon a hill.
My windows are darkened and my halls are still.
My shingles have thinned and the doors are sealed.
The specter of Death lurks in the shadows of the eaves.

But once I was young – And I laugh to remember my Birth.

Foundations dug straight and true, by men who laughed and
Sweated and knew, that my very life depended upon careful use
Of their skill.

Stones hewn from quarries across the valley were dragged, carted,
Planted, plumbed and cemented.
From this skeleton etched in moist, black soil,
My body was to form as workmen began their toil.

Bright yellow pine, fragrant lumber from forest tall,
Cut, sawn, planed, and hauled over river, valley and rill,
Piled in decks upon the bosom of the hill.

Random lengths of lumber raw were recruited.
Cut and shaped into studs who soon marched around the
Perimeter wall.
Signaled the first beating, thumping, stirring of life.

Floor joist, ceiling beams, rafters followed fast in rhythmic
Cadence.
Windows boxed, doors jammed, decking nailed.
I soon felt the shape of life to follow.

Clay, wet and cold, clawed from earth’s depth, squeezed, formed,
And fired into bricks of red
Came stacked tall to ward against winters dread.
Siding carefully planed and sawn, soon embraced the studs to
Shape my body and exclude the hot, the cold, the wind, the sand
And the foe.

Shingles split from ageless cedars became my crown.
Their fragrance permeated my body, filled the air and spilled to
The ground.
Sturdy oaks, sentinels of eastern slopes, came to carpet my floors
With polished bodies unyielding.

Following in quick procession, doors hinged, windows glazed,
Walls painted, trim carefully fitted.
And I was spanked to life a new house, soon to become a home.

What joy, what exultation I felt when first he came with bride
In hand.
Their look of joy, their touch of love, their tread of respect, made
Each to know we were of the same strand.

Soon my halls were full of laughter, warmth and fun.
Then came two, but soon were three, then four, then six.
I held them all.
I shaded them from summers sun, in fall embraced them as
Winter’s cold crept close.
THESE WERE MINE… NONE COULD TOUCH!

Of course nights came when lights burned low.
Hushed voices worried over some mysterious malady.
BUT ALWAYS THE DAWN!

Sun burst through; laughter reigned as master of the hill.
Seasons swiftly slid by.
A ball exploded window replaced.
A new sweater of paint, a repaired stair marked the passing years.

One by one the fledglings feathered and flew the nest.
THE HALLS WERE SILENT.
Yet love lingered long, with the two,….then one,…..then none.

Now I am a lonely old house.
And I stand on the hill.
My shingles have thinned and the doors are sealed.

I am old and my paint is peeled.
I hear a measured tread of my executioner who is coming still.

For I am a lonely old house upon the hill.