I have been working all day out in the sunroom – now my studio – by natural light, drawing mostly. I’ve always wanted to do a series of drawings inspired by lines from poetry – small drawings, maybe with words written on them – so that’s the order of the day. I’m beginning with Dylan Thomas. His work fascinates me, as does Gerard Manley Hopkins. Their words tumble and bump into each other in a kind of sound heaven. While I’m working on the subject, here are my other favorites: T. S. Eliot, Emily Dickinson, Theodore Roethke, Sylvia Plath and Jim Harrison. I do not like Ezra Pound. And I love Neruda. Someday I’ll put one of my own poems here. (I can hear you holding your breath with anticipation…) I hope that once I write my plan down here it is like a promise I make myself. It will not be easy.

I called Mr. Cook to come look at the furnace and he did indeed show up this afternoon. He looked at it for quite a while – actually there are two big units, located outside on the north side of the house. He proclaimed them in perfect condition, even checked the vents, said he couldn’t understand why it should be cold in the hall, that maybe there are leaks around the windows. But we trooped upstairs and he checked all around and couldn’t find any draughts. He reminded me that my grandmother had installed these units just a few years before she died, and I told him I could not have known this because I hardly even knew my grandmother. He looked so shocked at this I almost laughed. But in a small town like this one doesn’t “hardly” know their grandmother. A grandmother is someone who has you for Sunday lunch and sends you birthday presents and has to be reminded not to be so extravagant at Christmas. I asked him how well he had known my grandmother.

“Miss Isabelle? Oh, not very well actually. She didn’t come here but a few times a year, you know.” He waited.

“No, I didn’t know. We never corresponded,” I replied.

“Well,” he said. I could tell he was really confused by this. “Well, she came to check on the house, brought people with her. She lived in Europe, I understand. But she kept the house in good shape.” He looked around him. “She had a woman come over here to clean and a man who worked on the outside.” He paused again. “Then how come you got this house?” he asked.

“That’s a good question, Mr. Cook. I am the only living heir. How about that. It just came to me by default. Which is fine with me. I love it just as much as if I had grown up here. My father did. Grow up here.”

“And he’s gone over?”

“You mean ‘died’? Yes, he’s deceased.”

“I wonder why I never knew him if he grew up here. I thought I knew everybody.”

“He was only here on holidays. He went off to boarding school when he was very young. And I understand that the family wasn’t very friendly back then.” I was really ready to stop talking to Mr. Cook. He had obviously not been taught not to ask personal questions, which I thought was a RULE. It was in my house anyway. Just then the phone rang and I took that opportunity to say, “Thank you so much for coming, Mr. Cook, and I’m sure my furnaces are fine, like you say. Hope I don’t see you soon!” I said gaily, trying to be funny but he didn’t laugh. I started to explain that I meant that I hoped I didn’t need his services any time soon but then just let it drop and grabbed the phone up as he saw himself to the door. It was a recording offering to  help me with my credit card debt.

Later: a very productive day. I have been drawing from these words: “No sun or moon shall lamp the raven darkness of her face.” There are ravens in the yard here which sort of prejudiced my choice. It’s getting late and I – Oops! I just heard a rumbling of thunder and can see the glow of distant lightning. I’m working upstairs in the manroom which means I am at treetop level – the ceilings are so high downstairs. I am looking down on everything and can see weather moving in, bringing the dark. The huge old trees out in the yard are beginning to whip around, their bare branches hitting each other like fencers. I will have to locate my “grandmother’s” yard man as I’m sure it will be twig city out on the lawn in the morning. The lights will probably go out at any minute so I may as well turn off the computer – in case there’s a power surge – and go to bed. Think I’ll run downstairs and check the doors before I go – which I hate to do when it’s this late. I should have done it while it was still light outside. And I forgot to turn on the lights down there….Check back here tomorrow and if I haven’t made an entry, call 911!

The house is looking well, given the fact that it sits here all by itself for long stretches of time. It’s been here since 1867, so perhaps it’s used to the whims of humans. I came in making a lot of noise to make myself feel…what? Safe? I don’t know. But I bustled around turning on lights and dumping coats and bags and supplies, moving briskly up the tall silent steps into the dark upstairs hall where it was freezing. I thought heat rises, but apparently not here. I went in all the upstairs rooms or I knew I would imagine noises in them all night. All was still and looked exactly like I left it three weeks ago during my last visit. I took the yellow bedroom for my room this time – there are so many bedrooms I kind of go from one to the other. I put my computer in the manroom, which is the big den where the hunting prints, television and bar are located. It is the only room in the entire house that has even a slightly modern look. Everything else is 19th Century. In my artist rags and sandals I am a living anachronism.

Now I am going to bed so I can get an early start in the morning.  It crossed my mind that moving into a really old house in the dead of winter in the middle of the night is not the best idea in the world. I have the furnace turned up and I can hear it working but when I went out into the hall to turn off the lights  it was icey cold out there. I’ll have to call Mr. Cook in the morning and get him to check on the vents. Till then, dear reader, I’m off to my great big four-poster bed and the warmth of some serious blankets.