I see it every day and think of the woman who loved it.

This poor little house is in our main street, it’s been for sale for two years.

It’s parked between the Tattoo Parlour, the guitar shop and the optometrist.

I see it and think how much the original person must have loved it.

The overgrown garden has the most magnificent weeping rose, a beautiful camellia and rosemary bushes… a woman after my own heart… the sales guide doesn’t show inside… but does show the backyard, also carefully and beautifully planted with treasures.

Have any of you ever read The Little House? Or seen Disney’s Cartoon story of it? (https://www.dailymotion.com/video/x2p9w2v)

I am so reminded of others like it. It’s so typical of its time, with a central hallway and a window on each side. Brick chimney sticking out of the roof about half way along.

So many of our oldest farm houses shows how they were enlarged either when the family grew or a bit more money was available. Starting with two rooms, then another two behind it, then another. The gabled roof gives a clear story as to how they were added to.

Some, like the little house in the main street, survive, and their age and style give a clear indication to their history, even when their neighbours have long gone and they sit with commercial shops on each side.

Others have gone, but proof of their existence shows, in the middle of a paddock, where a lonely chimney still valiantly stands with its fireplace beautifully curved showing the care used in its creation.

But it’s the gardens that always fill my heart.

I love mine so. It’s my solace, my creation, my joy and obviously the women of my mum and my nana’s time felt the same.

Some, like the one on the little house in the main street, remain beautiful, but others, like the lonely chimney in the paddock, have determined rose bushes defying the predation by sheep and cattle, an occasional Artemesia – AKA Wormwood (these always survive as livestock don’t find them tasty) and a flowering gum.

The one I notice most and think who planted it is further out of town.

A dilapidated bluestone, roofless house, with large, empty windows, it must have been beautiful once.

There is no garden left, not even a tree, but every year come spring an absolute froth of glorious daffodils spring up in stately lines all the way across the yard.

They were obviously carefully planted by loving hands.   My gardening sister from another time.   Of course, she wasn’t thinking of me when she planted them, but I think of her each year when I see her masterpiece.

Wherever she is, I say thankyou.