Afternoon nap in a tree house
We drove north to the historic village of Shelburne Falls and arrived in a rural area where people farmed the land to grow vegetables even in the winter. It’s a part of Massachusetts we did not know existed.
It reminded me of my summer in Ithaca, New York.
Perhaps it was the creative decor of the house, or the myriad of house plants, or the barefoot ladies, I appeared somewhat overwhelmed by the variety and history of what there was to digest. In my San Franciscan outfit, I felt overdressed and inadequate.
Sensing my disposition, the owner asked, “Would you like to rest?” She was getting ready for a run and suggested that we reconvene upon her return. Later I learned that she had run marathons.
“Yes, that’s a nice idea,” I replied softly.
She led us past the goats and chickens and labourers on the farm. She waved to the young men in the distance. “Are you coming to the concert tonight? We’re having a concert in the house. This is Robert. This is Anne.”
Out in the open fields, a most peculiar construction awaited us. It was every person’s dream of a tree house. We climbed up the ladder and noticed the windows on four sides. We sat on the bed and saw the sky through the transparent roof above.
We slept until sunset, a much needed nap before a concert.