Kukka by Sally Kilgore: It Was Fate

Rockwall, TX (April 14, 2023) – A restored house, with whitewashed wood walls, porches and screen doors open to the beauty, on a good-sized plot of land, in the Texas Hill Country or somewhere in Tennessee, better still; a stone cottage in the Cotswolds, would be the dream photo in my brain. The kitchen, light filled, with sash windows open to the breeze, and the farmhouse sink, rescued from an old barn. The décor, my eclectic, character filled style, reminiscent of English country cottages, would fill the home. Gravel walks and small beds of flowers everywhere, country living style. Rustic, not uncomfortably so, just right Goldilocks! You know – a house with a story. Perhaps a tale of the original occupants, of the families who brought up their children in this home, children in bare feet and soft, worn overalls, hints of times past whispering in the attic, stairs that creak underfoot.

This scenario does not fit with life with my mate who, at nearly seventy-five, continues to be engaged in his work, which requires living within thirty minutes of his Court and in proximity to Dallas, where he maintains presence at a law firm, and as a mentor at the law school; and who is not a fixer up, handy kind of guy. I choose wholeheartedly to live wherever he is because I am so terribly fond of him. A place in the countryside in the Hill Country or Tennessee seems not to be in our books.

In 2020, we sold our larger home, two story, with a green hilled suburban lot, a pool, stone walled planting beds, trees, and all; to build a perfectly sized home, for us; senior(ish) empty nesters. We chose a spot in midst of suburbia, with nary a tree and a tiny plot, which I can manage by myself, as I am the garden worker and landscaper. The B.O.B. is the chosen admirer of my labors of love. The build took seven months, during which we lived in a leased townhouse.

When digging commenced we were ecstatic, and when the slab was poured, we named our growing home Mildred, and branded her as such in thick, black Sharpie. Who knows? Someday someone may find her name inscribed in permanent black marker on the foundation. When her framing went up, I took that Sharpie (kept in the glovebox during the build for just such purposes) and penned phrases and verses onto the wood framing in Mildred, to give her a sense of direction and spirit. We visited multiple times a week, and snapped photos, multitudes of photos. We were delighted when the windows were installed, over the moon when we found the farmhouse sink plumbed in. I took our Facebook friends through the long, arduous months of building with weekly status posts. Bless their hearts. Somehow, they endured and lived to tell the story. The build culminated in the joy of opening the door and stepping through Mildred’s portal, into our home on closing day, the end of April 2021. The year that followed was filled with social media posts to disclose to all (bless their hearts) our development, my madcap decorating pace and the even madder pace at which I established the garden, that first spring and summer.

All of this to say – I realized this morning – we have written the story of our home, Mildred. Mildred is modest and fetching, comfortable, a happy home. As we embark on our third year with Mildred, we continue to be infatuated with her, warm and sheltered in winter, cool and rested during summers; delighted to abide in this place which is so perfectly us. The B.O.B. has his comfy chair at the far back of the house, in front of the living room windows, where he can look forward and see our life, in Mildred. It’s all there stretched before him in view, the home, the peace, the life; the cat lying on his back, all four paws in the air.

I will always admire the charm of those old homes, restored and adored. Our own beloved Mildred contains the story of us. I hope, as the trees grow and the gardens mature, she’ll be preparing for the day in the far away future, when the next family steps in to feel the love and continue the chapters in the story of our home, Mildred.

It was Fate.

Sally Kilgore is a resident of Fate, Texas, transplanted from Rowlett, across the lake. She is married to her long-time flame, Judge Chris Kilgore, (aka The B.O.B.) When not writing, gardening, filling in at the local flower shop or hanging out with grandkids, Sally devotes her time to serving Bob Kilgore, a well sized, Tuxedo cat with panache.