Dreams turn to dust

I have a guest writer to share with you for this post. My wonderful partner is a great writer and this is one of his latest stories. Hope you enjoy it!

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Beginnings and endings. The circle of life. The seasons, spring, summer, fall, winter, and spring again, but a totally new and unexplored spring. Life continues. Living things come and go. Everything different and all things the same.

Although my mind is currently wandering as I bike down a country road, a story jumps out at me and I stop to take a photo of a dilapidated house nearly hidden in the woods.

 

As it always does when I see an old abandoned house, I began to wonder what story that house could tell. It wasn't always this way. It was once alive and new, full of endless promise.

So how does this story begin?

Harley and Emma, sitting in a tree,

K-I-S-S-I-N-G

And it happened, just like that. First came love, then came marriage, then came Emma with a baby carriage.

They moved into the new unfinished house that Harlan was building with his own hands and with lumber from their woods. A fine house it was, with an upstairs and a southern exposure to let more light in the windows. It was filled with a wagon load of dreams.

Six babies were born in that house. One infant boy died at birth and one of the girls didn’t survive a bout of pneumonia when she was just four. Young and optimistic, Harley and Emma worked together, planting the crops and praying for rain. Joys, sorrow, hope and despair…this old house saw it all.

One by one the kids grew up and moved away. Sunrise, sunset... just like the song says. Soon age began creeping up on Grandpa Harlan and Grandma Emma. Aching joints, sore backs and graying hair. Grandpa Harlan lost a long battle with lung cancer, probably the result of the pipeful of Granger tobacco that was always in his mouth. Grandpa always smoked Granger in the blue can, even though he joked that Prince Albert had been in the can for a really long time. That always brought a chuckle.

Can sadness cause a heart to stop beating? Grandma Emma collapsed and died from a massive stroke just months after saying goodbye to her lifetime partner. It was nearly a week before the mailman found Grandma on the floor when he began wondering why she wasn’t picking up her mail. That was years ago.

Now the house stands empty, almost hidden by trees. The shingles are rotting and the doors and windows are long gone. It was a house of dreams tempered by reality. It had survived the Great Depression, World War II, and a serious chimney fire. The walls had heard and absorbed laughter and tears, pain and joy, and lots of music from Grandpa Harlan’s fiddle.

Does anyone know the story this house has to tell? Does anybody care? Dreams turn to dust. These thoughts and musings flood over me as I wonder about the story this house has to tell.

And then I continue my bike ride down a quiet country road on a lovely morning…alone and content and still dreaming.

DHA 8/30/25