2301 S Andrews Rd

i've been thinking about moving into the windmill on my mom's property. she and my two brothers live in a tiny house surrounded by cornfields beside the train tracks in indiana. it's a tan house with pea green shutters and steps leading up to the front porch and the gingerbread orange door. inside, there are country-style murals on two of the walls, depicting scenes of rolling hills, orchards, and red barns. the other walls are yellow, with tall, curved archways separating the rooms. the floors are hardwood, and a screened sunporch peers out the righthand side of the house.

the property itself speaks to the landlady's eccentricity. to the left of the house, a reconstructed civil-war-era cannon molders beside a marble bench. the stone statue of an angel peeks out from the fruit trees behind the cannon. in the back on the house, a garden and a screened pavilion with long benches for summer parties have fallen into disrepair. the front of the house boasts an elaborate arbour and trellis covered in vines that hang down over a path to the front door. red-berried trees line either side of the path. the right of the house seems to be focused on outmoded energy-efficiency machines: a defunct water wheel and windmill sit side by side, rusted immobile. the water wheel stands silent behind a bridge over a dried-up creek with stone swans frozen on one side, looking like they might jump into the dusty creekbed. a heart-shaped porch swing sways in the wind beside the bridge.

but the windmill is my favourite part. it has two stories, circular rooms of cinderblock. the second story has a ladder up to its doorway. the rooms are filled with feathers and straw, suggesting that the previous tenants kept chickens in it, or that doves have been nesting there during the house's abandonment. for a child, it would be the ideal clubhouse. for a college student worried about future unemployment, it's a sentimental back-up plan. maybe mom would let me live at home for free if i agreed to tend the garden and live out in the windmill to pay my rent. i could even try to get the water wheel running, polish the angel statues. anything to not end up broke and subpoenaed in new york again.

i just want to go back to childhood. but i know i'd be miserable if i tried. i'm just scared of the unknown that lies ahead, and the thought of living like the little rascals in my rundown windmill clubhouse sounds like the only safe plan i have so far.