They are going to paint Aunt Gertrude's old cabin so I decided to take a picture before it lost its pink patina. They're painting it the same color but it won't be quite the same. Well at least not until the sun and weather ages it properly. A lot of people I've been close to have gone through this door. It's a door into my past.
Now people build great big homes along the lake. There's something lost in them. I'd rather stay in a place like this.
Aunt Gertrude always had a bag of yarn and would crochet things. She made me an afghan and a poop duck, and she made things that looked like poodles to put toilet paper in. She was prolific, and there was something calming about being around her while she worked. She was like a spider spinning her endless web looking through old cat eye glasses.
I don't bother putting extra toilet paper in a thing that looks like a poodle but I might if I had one...
If you look closely there's a little bird poking its head out of the bird house that's sitting on the electrical service box. I bet that bird is realted to birds that came here when Gertrude owned the pink cabin.
***After Aunt Gertrude left, Aunt Mildred and Aunt Dorothy moved in. They weren't really my aunts like Gertrude was, but they were other people's aunts. So I called them aunt as did everyone. They were no spring chickens. Mildred had gone to the Art Institute of Chicago. She had a potters wheel in there, painted and composed music. I used to go there and talk art with her while I was going to art school. She gave me a great big book on Leonardo. I also have one of her pots. A tea pot.
All of those aunts are dead and gone now. The people who come and stay there have no idea.
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