The house on the corner with tall, wrought iron fence is always tight shut. Sometimes I see the owner. He was shoveling snow on the sidewalk at 5am in the morning when we dragged our suitcases down the middle of Congress Street in December, on our way to catch a cab to Penn Station, for Montreal.
The glories of home ownership, he muttered to us...
I wonder sometimes if he sees me from his upstairs windows, while I stand on tippy toe on one of my terrace chairs to water the pots on the roof, or weed, or pick thyme for dinner, or pull a garlic bulb. Does he like the Iceberg roses, which spill up and over the terrace?
Because as mute as his house is, against the high wrought iron fence are planted about eight David Austin roses, and they are now coming into bloom.. They are over seven feet tall.
When I was up on the roof taking this picture, I saw that the neighbour-girl had painted her terrace, which is a little smaller than ours. It is a deep, shocking pink. Or red, depending on your eye. I say pink. She said she liked ours, so painted hers the same
Could this be a trend? If you're interested, it's Benjamin Moore Roseate.
Above, New Dawn, enjoying breakfast with us.