On our walk this morning Jerry and I found that a house we’d watched be torn down and rebuilt from the pillars up was for sale and having an open house. We detoured through its spacious downstairs, admiring the wood floors, the recessed lighting, the fireplace, the beautifully appointed living area, the view of the roomy deck and landscaping out back, the state-of-the art kitchen complete with walk-in pantry, wine racks, two sinks–and a movable faucet thingy over the six-burner stove to fill large pots with water without having to lug them, slopping over, the whole five feet from one of the sinks.
The perfect home for entertaining.
We peered into at least four bathrooms and four bedrooms, plus an upstairs den, ending up in the master bedroom, with walk-in closet and balcony–in all, $1, 325,000 worth of comfort and beauty.
An elegant home.
But I am always looking for the human touch which is behind the perfect facade and betrays the real. The Lego on the floor of a closet. The photo of a scruffy dog that doesn’t look staged. In other words, the pahdum PUM.
Downstairs on the coffee table there was a book about Tiger Woods. Not there. Modern prints on the walls. Not there.
I found it on the bed stand beside the master bed: a volume that looked erudite and old, displayed casually. One of those books with ridges on the spine. Canto XV: Argomento, it read on the front. Ooh, a classic. Impressive. But when I looked closer, I saw that the title was printed on a piece of white paper which had been pasted on the cover.
Jerry and I opened the book and saw the real title: A Heapin’ Helping of True Gizzard.
Ahh, that’s more like it.