By lex, on June 8th, 2009
I want a log cabin with a broad veranda looking out over the grass strip alongside the burbling trout stream at the foot of the mountains. With neighbors nowhere in sight, until you want them there for a toddy to watch the sun go down, the horses neighing in the pasture, the whitetails just there in the thicket, the bird dogs snoring by the fire. They’ve had a busy day.
I want perfect weather. I don’t mind a little rain when the mood strikes, and I’ll even accept some snow flurries so long as they’re gone in the morning. I’ll tolerate one bead of sweat on the 4th of July. Just the one.
I want a 200-HP Husky in the hangar. With glass.
I want a nice paved road, curvy and with trees hanging over it, to spin the bicycle over on an autumn’s day. And a jogging path by the river that leads to nowhere in particular, but on and always on. Leading you back home again without ever having to retrace your steps.
I want to not know where that path is leading. I want coming home again to be a welcome surprise.
I want the 38-foot sloop on a lake with no horizons that’ll take me to Tahiti. And a library of good books to keep me busy when I’m tired of the tiller, letting the autopilot do its magic. And I want my girlfriend in the cabin, happy and contented. Like the kids are, now that they’re all grown up and successfully on their way.
I want to not be in a hurry, while watching the sand run out.
I want the time and space to read and think. I wouldn’t mind a little time to set things down. For after.
I want to get it all right.
Two questions for you:
Is that too much to ask?
What do you want?