I love the hallway and the old door that hangs at the threshold of the bedroom. It’s a simple, minimal place. One of the few in our small, old farmhouse which is packed with life and activity. I relish these little empty corners. They are my space. No one notices them. They are too small to fit anything but the dust I sweep away. The old baseboards, painted and painted again, layered with dust.
Natural wood finish is a contemporary fancy, our neighborhood historian told me. All wood would have been painted. Pity, I thought. Were I not so busy and disinclined to inhale old paint fumes and dust, I might rewrite history and strip the layers and layers of paint and find the wood below. Then, my quiet little corners might be cluttered with the apparent history of a forest written wood grain laid down year after year, season after season. A thin band of wood, a dry spring. A thick band, a moist fertile year.