Wednesday, July 15, 2015


Growing up, I loved Victorian houses.  I searched for gingerbread, wrought iron and widow's walks where ever we went.  I would imagine all sorts of adventures on those elegant roofs.  We lived in a Victorian era house when I was very small.  The gingerbread had been removed and the pocket doors were sealed into the walls.  I don't remember much about it.  I always figured that is where my love of ornate houses came from.

During my college years, the university theater guild advertised a showing of Mary Poppins.  I dragged my best friend to see it.  I knew that I had seen it during a magical summer when I was, again, very small.  I didn't really remember any of it.  I vaguely knew the story.  I just wanted to see it again.

As the opening scene started to unfold a sense of belonging washed over me.  By the time the canon went off, I knew.  I absolutely knew what I had been searching for all those years.  It was that street.  Those houses and that cannon. 

A subconscious memory that impinged upon my conscious behavior.  And still today. 

Oh.  To have a cannon on the roof. 

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