I checked out a book from the library on American Bungalows. The more I flipped through the pages, the more oppressed I felt. I think the cause was the dark interiors, even in the photographs of buildings with lots of windows, and the low, heavy ceilings.
With each new fabulous, honest bungalow I saw, I tried to tell myself how cool and cultured the interior would be. But I couldn't convince myself, and as I imagined myself living in the houses I saw pictured, I imagined myself rushing outside. I wondered if maybe I had some odd childhood experience in a bungalow, because my feeling of dread had a dejavu feel to it.
There are times when I wish we had a garret in our house. Maybe one of these years we can put one on top of our garage. Actually, if I were going to redo our garage, I'd put in a new roof that slants at a forty-five degree angle--it would let the sun in during the winter and provide shade during the summer.
A it would drive Mark crazy because he likes things plain, but I wish we could replace all the walls in our house with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Filled with books books books books books!
No... it really would drive Mark crazy. But maybe we could pull off a reading nook for two. OK, and a throne with wide armrests for tea and a little pull-out desk for jotting down notes...
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