I've always been drawn to the idea of having a bed and breakfast. A small dwelling with a modern-rustic esthetic and a garden rich in vegetables and orchard fruit. Beautiful gauzy linens that adorn the breakfast table with farm fresh eggs and homemade biscuits and fresh wildflowers gracing every table. I'm not sure if my life will ever allow for such a thing, but I like day dreaming about it anyway.
Growing up in a family of four children, there was always laughter and home cooked meals and more than our share of arguments over misplaced clothing and borrowed make- up and little brothers who’d pick up the telephone and listen in on private conversations. And I suppose on some level, it's the commotion I’ve always loved. The constant, never-ending upheaval that comes with a full house.
We've decided to rent out our north shore home for part of the summer. Not in a bed and breakfast capacity but still, I like thinking about the kinds of people who will pass through our door. About the meals they’ll create and the conversations they’ll have and the memories they’ll make. I hope they wake up to rolling waves and glorious sunshine every single day and I hope they gather seashells and build sand castles and collect minty colored sea glass. I hope they run around bare foot in the grass and drink lemonade and eat homemade lobster rolls and rippled potato chips. That they take afternoon naps and make peach cobbler and fruity summer sangria and visit the lavender farm up the street. I hope they wrap themselves in warm blankets and gaze at the starry midnight sky and wake up in the morning to homemade waffles and hot coffee. That they read a great summer romance and resurrect their love of crazy eights and immerse themselves in marathons of classic board games.
Even if it rains.
Even if it pours for days and days.
I hope they love every single moment.