Tuesday, August 23, 2022
In keeping with my "The Noun" rut of titling my posts, I will tell you about our gazebo. Yes, we have one.
I should sort of explain about my dad. He was born during the Depression and grew up on a farm in eastern Pennsylvania, dirt poor. His family home did not have indoor plumbing until he was in high school (and he was the youngest of the family). The house had an outhouse and a pump in the kitchen sink. He once told me the story of how his older brother's dog accidentally fell into the "honey pit" under the outhouse. His brother was able to get the dog out, but the poor thing nearly drowned. What a horrible way to go that would have been.
There was a local estate owner, a rich man, who went by the name of McFeely. My paternal grandfather used to work there hauling rocks, and my dad worked there too at some point. Anyway, my father admired the estate greatly and one of his motivations for purchasing this home and property was to emulate Mr. McFeely. Hence the gazebo, and a fountain, and a giant garage and a lot of other things. (Incidentally, Mr. McFeely had a grandson who was named Fred Rogers. Yes, that Fred Rogers.)
It isn't that large, maybe 12 feet across, large enough to hold a table and four chairs. The space underneath the gazebo has hosted many a family of feral cats over the years - at one point I started referring to their house as "the cat farm." It's a nice place to hang out after dinner, and the daughter of family friends actually got married in it (she had always loved it).
My parents' caregivers were invited to their memorial services, both of which were at the house, and collected there to eat and chat. That was three months ago. Once I get the Boards recertification test over with I will wash off the furniture and take some of my meals there. But for now, I look up from my review books and look at the cupola, which is falling apart, and remember the good times that were held there.