July 2 — Grand Strand
The house is large and beautiful, yet a work in progress. A long wooden porch sweeps around the entire building, extending out maybe thirty feet on the lakeward side. From here one can see the wooded hills of Maynardville dip into the green-blue lake. It faces west, so the sunsets are worth their weight in gold. In the kitchen Barb knows where everything is, down to which side of which shelf. The decor is sort of bohemian-southern. The main living room has vintage Tennessee postcards. Downstairs there is an impressionistic portrait of Bob Dylan and a number of other old men I can’t identify.
Most of the porch, however, is empty — including the part that extends furthest toward the lake. Similarly, to the right of the bottom of the staircase the room is empty. The latch to the outside stairs is warped and must be held up to open and close. The microwave is broken, the victim of a recent bachelor party. I feel welcome here, but it doesn’t quick smack of home. The ghost of a father and a husband lingers over it. My enjoyment of it does not come without shadows.
