Apr. 13, 2007 - 21:42 MDT

DERELICT

On the land sea are the land bound ships called houses that have shed their occupants long ago, and gradually fall into decay.

Such a vessel lives out our way, seemingly the same day to day, each shred of edifice apparently the same forever.

I do wonder how many families have lived here, children raised here, was it a farmhouse once ?

If it could write its autobiography what would the story say ?

Something similar to, "I was built by a man who felt he could make his way in this area in 1900, a farmer from the midwest, a man unacquainted with this arid clime. He moved his family into me, wife and two kids, a boy and a girl and as he realized he couldn't farm here he began to work down in Denver town in order to ensure survival for himself and family."

He toiled mightily and earned a living, kept me up, shingled me and painted me while his family and he lived inside me comfortably.

As time passed, things changed, the kids grew up and moved back east, he began to stop by the bar after work and stumble on the step coming home.

He and his wife sold me and moved back to their home state.

My new owners were gentle folk, loving each other and their kids. The man was a hard worker in a good trade, carpenter it was, who lovingly kept me up and improved inside for his family. About the time the kids were grown and thinking of marrying and moving out Dust Bowl days happened as well as the Great Depression.

For about ten years my cracks and crevices were filled with gritty dust and my paint blasted away in that windy sanding. My owner couldn't find work and for a long time picked up odd jobs just to keep food on the table and warmth from the cold.

His kids married and moved on, he never did find decent work and I became quite ill, much of myself rotting away, water leaking in from rain and snow. And vermin the only tenants now for many years after the old man died.

I am as you see me today, a once proud domecile, now a faded, feeble wreck of a place, but there are some fond memories in this old DERELICT . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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