i liked calling it 'flying w ranch'

i was in texas a couple of days ago to give the final salute to the home of my youth, and yes, this post is part of adjusting to the loss.

the first time i saw it was from the south, a semi-flattering side shot, but strangely a favorite view. 'i hope it's that one.'

it became a maintenance-intense, hand-made sort of place with huck finn flavor and plantation elegance. we built new walls and transplanted others. beat it with sledge hammers, jack hammers, pasted it up with paper, bricks, paint, and squared-off concrete. fixed leaks (and leaks and leaks). more paint. new paint. the house was a beating heart and the percussion was hard rock, saws, and dominoes.

in many ways it was a haven: a deep red brick well, lilies and bluebonnets, a gravel drive that popped and crumpled, a small pond, hundreds of oaks filled with mistletoe and briar, and the most godly sunrises on earth.

cicadas, moo-ing, frogs, and ceiling fans for mood music to sunsetting ceremonies that made you say 'this world is beautiful.'

a baseball field, occasional motorcross jumps, and a plumber's pool. it was a strong symbol of home and family, a place where we fought and made-up, did stupid things and told each other that we'd always be together: the unique and formative place of the now-adult generation. farewell little mansion, you were wonderful. do us the honor of a repeat.