JК
Bag of Bones :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 32 из 425Small things-chipmunks, probably, or the occasional squirrel—rustle in the woods.
Now I come to a dirt driveway sloping down the hill on my right. It is our driveway, marked with a little wooden sign which reads s^, UGHS. I stand at the head of it, but I don’t go down. Below is the lodge. It’s all logs and added-on wings, with a deck jutting out behind. Fourteen rooms in all, a ridiculous number of rooms. It should look ugly and awkward, but somehow it does not. There is a brave-dowager quality to Sara, the look of a lady pressing resolutely on toward her hundredth year, still taking pretty good strides in spite of her arthritic hips and gimpy old knees.
The central section is the oldest, dating back to 1900 or so. Other sections were added in the thirties, forties, and sixties. Once it was a hunting lodge; for a brief period in the early seventies it was home to a small commune of transcendental hippies. These were lease or rental deals; the owners from the late forties until 1984 were the Hingermans, Darren and Marie… then Marie alone when Darren died in 1971. The only visible addition from our period of ownership is the tiny DSS dish mounted on the central roofpeak. That was Johanna’s idea, and she never really got a chance to enjoy it.
Beyond the house, the lake glimmers in the afterglow of sunset. The driveway, I see, is carpeted with brown pine needles and littered with fallen branches. The bushes which grow on either side of it have run wild, reaching out to one another like lovers across the narrowed gap which separates If you brought a car down here, the branches would scrape and unpleasantly against its sides. Below, I see, there’s moss growing logs of the main house, and three large sunflowers with faces like have grown up through the boards of the little driveway-side. The overall feeling is not neglect, exactly, butjrgottenness.
There is a breath of breeze, and its coldness on my skin makes me that I have been sweating. I can smell pine—a smell which is sour and clean at the same time—and the faint but somehow smell of the lake. Dark Score is one of the cleanest, deepest in Maine.
It was bigger until the late thirties, Marie Hingerman us; that was when Western Maine Electric, working hand in hand the mills and paper operations around Rumford, had gotten state to dam the Gessa River.
Marie also showed us some charming;raphs of white-frocked ladies and vested gentlemen in canoes—snaps were from the time of the First World War, she said, and to one of the young women, frozen forever on the rim of the with a dripping paddle upraised. “That’s my mother,” she said, the man she’s threatening with the paddle is my father.
Now I come to a dirt driveway sloping down the hill on my right. It is our driveway, marked with a little wooden sign which reads s^, UGHS. I stand at the head of it, but I don’t go down. Below is the lodge. It’s all logs and added-on wings, with a deck jutting out behind. Fourteen rooms in all, a ridiculous number of rooms. It should look ugly and awkward, but somehow it does not. There is a brave-dowager quality to Sara, the look of a lady pressing resolutely on toward her hundredth year, still taking pretty good strides in spite of her arthritic hips and gimpy old knees.
The central section is the oldest, dating back to 1900 or so. Other sections were added in the thirties, forties, and sixties. Once it was a hunting lodge; for a brief period in the early seventies it was home to a small commune of transcendental hippies. These were lease or rental deals; the owners from the late forties until 1984 were the Hingermans, Darren and Marie… then Marie alone when Darren died in 1971. The only visible addition from our period of ownership is the tiny DSS dish mounted on the central roofpeak. That was Johanna’s idea, and she never really got a chance to enjoy it.
Beyond the house, the lake glimmers in the afterglow of sunset. The driveway, I see, is carpeted with brown pine needles and littered with fallen branches. The bushes which grow on either side of it have run wild, reaching out to one another like lovers across the narrowed gap which separates If you brought a car down here, the branches would scrape and unpleasantly against its sides. Below, I see, there’s moss growing logs of the main house, and three large sunflowers with faces like have grown up through the boards of the little driveway-side. The overall feeling is not neglect, exactly, butjrgottenness.
There is a breath of breeze, and its coldness on my skin makes me that I have been sweating. I can smell pine—a smell which is sour and clean at the same time—and the faint but somehow smell of the lake. Dark Score is one of the cleanest, deepest in Maine.
It was bigger until the late thirties, Marie Hingerman us; that was when Western Maine Electric, working hand in hand the mills and paper operations around Rumford, had gotten state to dam the Gessa River.
Marie also showed us some charming;raphs of white-frocked ladies and vested gentlemen in canoes—snaps were from the time of the First World War, she said, and to one of the young women, frozen forever on the rim of the with a dripping paddle upraised. “That’s my mother,” she said, the man she’s threatening with the paddle is my father.