Of Tin Hats and Tears

   Of Tin Hats And Tears

She was—unsettled, that small Anne-ish cottage we flashed past on the highway. She always was, no matter which way you were passing her. It did not possess a comfortable dignity, or a becoming-part-of-the-landscape air, poor thing…. Not that it was unpleasant to look at, it was quite a charming little cottage, if you looked past the fact that it was so unmistakably unhappy. 

Like a lady chafing under the weighty knowledge of wearing a well despised hat-which regardless of how practical it is, makes you feel absolutely rotten. Because, as every lady knows, looks most certainly DO matter, and lovely clothes go the longest way in boosting self confidence…. 

The lack thereof scrunching it into a ball and sailing it (your confidence) into the farthest available corner.

And in identical fashion, how that little house did hate the faded and weathered  tin she wore, and spent long, sun baked hours dreaming wistfully of cool, forest-y shades….

For it had not grown old gracefully, as wooden shingles are apt to do…. No gentle silvering came to soften her eaves, no dainty mosses grew to trim it…. Just a solid, corner to corner, dull red sheet that gave her beauty-loving heart many an hour of grief!

Nay, but however tomato-ey pink from long years in the elements (which always afflict even the finest of Prairie houses) it became, it was still practical, and so it stayed, this everlasting, raindrummed old tin hat.

And the little house wept with the rain.