Purple House

Down the street a ways, then up the hill a bit, finally over by that old barn is a purple house. The brightest purple paint you’d ever want to see all over the house, the windows and porch.

“Who lives in that house?” I asked Mom one day as we drove past it.

“Well, there is said a mad woman lives there,” and she talked no more. The way our conversation ended meant that house was not to be discussed further. End of subject.

But I got to thinking. Was the woman mad because someone painted her house that horrid purple color? Didn’t she have anything to say about a choice of color? I always thought adults could make their own decisions. Or maybe she was mad because they no longer made that purple paint. The paint was peeling away in spots the last time we drove past.

Then one day we drove past the purple house again. But this time it wasn’t purple. Now it was a dark ugly gray. Gray as a thunder-cloud in summer.

“What happened to the purple paint?” I dared to ask Mom.

“The mad woman went away. Now a man that works at the store lives there. They say he works all the time and is never home.” End of subject. No more information.

I rather liked the purple house. I didn’t care if the woman in the purple house was mad. Her house was a happy color. I smiled whenever we drove by, happy to see such a fantastic purple on that house. Perhaps the mad woman floated away in a purple bubble to a place where she could be happy again.

W/C 279