Before it got dark last night, the wind started to swell, and we knew the storm was on its way. The kids all got home safely from school, as the sky got darker and the temperature dropped. We’ve been in our little house less than a year, so we are still getting to know each other as each season changes.
I couldn’t help but think of The Three Little Pigs as I looked outside from our large front window.
This was a beautiful storm, by most standards: I watched golden gingko leaves flutter in a sideways cascade from a neighbor’s tree while red maple leaves twirled along the curb.
I feel happy in my little house of bricks, my solid little fortress of warmth and coziness, as the wind swirls around me. Our previous house, which we decided to sell after 13 very happy years inside its walls, had started to feel like a house of sticks. It was beautiful, but one gust of wind (in the form of an unexpected bill or a large repair) could’ve dismantled it. We had too much. Too much mortgage. Too much stuff. Too much worry.
My house of bricks is small. But it’s strong. Sometimes, I feel like this little cottage is taking care of us, rather than the other way around. Last night, my husband came home after work, and decided our gutters should to be cleared out before the storm hit, just in case. His little garage is neatly stocked with all his tools. He quickly grabbed a small ladder and some gloves, and went around the perimeter of the house. In less than 15 minutes, all the gutters were cleared.
“I’m … done,” he said, hardly able to believe it. We looked at each other.
“Want some dinner?” I asked. Just like the Little Pigs, I had a bubbling hot pot on the stove. But we wouldn’t be cooking up the Big Bad Wolf tonight. He was outside where he belonged, unable to penetrate our little house of bricks.