her house

She lives at the end of a cul-de-sac in a middle-aged part of town, houses from the 60s and 70s with irregular lot lines and wide siding. Kids play hockey year round in the quiet street, rolling the net out of the way when a car comes through, then starting up with the shout of "Game on!" The neighbors consist of young families that have bought into the low-priced real estate and couples or singles near retirement who will sell out soon for a smaller space or a warmer climate or both. Little happens in the front yards other than mowing. The back yards come together in a patchwork of fences, lawn maintenance problems, incongruous home improvements and a higher than average incidence of dog shit per square mile. The dogs are the large breeds that their owners enjoyed as farm children: German shepherds, Labradors, golden retrievers. They're too big for this suburban setting and prowl the fencelines, barking in voices that whine up at the end, pleading rather than menacing.

The house itself has been the same color for forty years because it's brown and the extra coats to turn it a lighter color would cost too much. The trim is yellow. There's something edible and confectionery-like about the color scheme, but combined with the dated architecture the colors only evoke faded magazines and women in puffy skirts with glossy smiles.

The garage, in which a previous owner hung himself, faces onto the street. Small trees, mountain ashes and Russian olives and pines, have been growing around the house for years but never achieved much stature. Although it's a two car garage there is nearly always a third car parked in the driveway. Over the years that car has metamorphosed from an early model Volvo with no shine left, through a rusting Honda hatchback, an Oldsmobile Cutlass, and a Ford Escort. The family prides itself on extracting the maximum utility out of mechanical objects, cars particularly, and an old car is more likely fixable than a new one with all its expensive gadgetry.