May 13, 2009 by David Gillaspie
What makes it work are the two English ladies who constantly tend it.
Lifting the view to across the street shows a series of four foot block walls leading to an entry befitting a sultan of your choice. The door opens in the crotch of a V-shaped house to a porch under a roof extension that would make Frank Lloyd Wright proud.
Two massive pillars hold up the porch roof, giving it a classic look. A double stairway with white hand rails angle off both sides for an odd community college vibe, like it was built to code for the after school crowds.
A museum man from the History Suite stares out the window.
“Mussolini would have been comfortable over there.”
An old man lives there with his lady friend. He’s eighty seven. She’s seventy nine. They still worry about the age gap. One year the whole street came to the dead end circle by the B&B for Fourth of July. It got out of hand with the potato guns and hairspray.
The next street over got out of hand with extra strength reservation bought bottle rockets. They showered down on the neighbor’s just cleaned cedar shake roof. The old man came out bare chested at eleven at night and bellowed threats to call the police if one more firework lifted off.
Since he’s a deaf six foot three inch force of nature who sounds like the grandpa from hell the celebration stopped.