Friday Fairytale

I love this house. It speaks to the rescuer in me. I just know it would blossom under the watchful eye and loving hand of one who appreciates its tumultuous past, yet who also sees the glory of its future.

Redemption is what it needs.

Oh, and big suitcase full of cash, but this is a fairytale and fairytales have no standard for currency, as far as I've seen. Maybe a pot of gold?

Sure, a pot of gold.

So, if someone could hook me up with a pot of gold, a big metal bucket and scrub brush (borrow one from Cinderella?), some magical trees from the enchanted forest and maybe some talking critters, well, that would be great.

I don't know what it is - My fairytales don't include a castle.

They include busted-up folk-artish dwellings.

Like this.

This is where we would go to church. Of course, we would walk there.

Scratch that - we would skip.

We would skip from that house to this church, every Sunday and once in between, just because we are quaint and good like that.

I would braid wildflowers into my thick, lustrous hair.

My kids would wear brown shoes and no one would complain about it.

Twice a week, we would stop here for lunch. Free lunch. Free lunch served in a brick house with loads of Gingerbread trim.

A lady - Marjorie - with a soft belly and kindly eyes, would serve us soup and crusty bread. And lemon meringue pie.

And coffee, for Cory.

Because he'd still be my Prince, you know.

Only he wouldn't wear those unfortunate stocking-things like Princes are known to do, he would wear his cowboy boots. And he would be clean-shaven and he would always, always wear a blue shirt so that I could more easily moon over his eyes.

We would waltz all the way home, because this is a fairytale, and in my fairytale, we're really good classical dancers.

We would also sing.

My voice would sound like Alison Krauss, not because she has my favorite voice, but because she has Prince Cory's favorite voice.

His voice would be Brad Paisley.

We would not sing whiskey lullabies, because that would just be depressing and lame, in a fairytale.

Our kids would hold hands the whole way home. They would pick me bouquets of wildflowers as big as their heads. They would call me "Mummy". Why not?

We would read a book at the hearth and the children would smile all the way up the stairs to bed.

And naturally, we would live happily ever after.