House by Shelley Alongi took that picture when it “I came through our local station,” A well-manicured front lawn he explained, remembering the and a vinyl fence, a stone front crowds, the anticipation, and the porch with lights discretely placed profusion of other cameras so that anyone who came there looking for the same best spot to was never completely in darkness. snap a picture of the engine built The awnings that protected in 1929 for the Santa Fe. His lips guests from driving rain or hot, curved into a smile of delight in crushing sun welcomed Laurie her enjoyment, his heart swelling Hensen to Brett McCarley’s with pleasure. It had been a long house. The wooden carved door time since anyone had taken with swirls and circles spoke her pleasure from the picture name. Even the cool frosty welcoming a rare guest to this morning welcomed her as Brett house. promise the whole “I slid his key into the door and house isn’t done in locomotives. swung it inward to reveal the high I’m not that much of an artist, or ceiling entry hall way. that dedicated.” steam locomotive?” “A don’t believe that,” she “I Laurie mused in her transfixed said turning and hugging him. “I state. have a picture of a “You just like that picture; those brass steam locomotive on your entry stacks. It’s perfect.” wall?” he rubbed her “Honey,” She laughed with delight. shoulder, afraid you’ve been “I’m What a strange thing to have a bit transfixed since I met you at welcoming a guest, but it was Union station this morning. I don’t characteristic of him, being a think it’s the picture on the wall.” locomotive engineer with an interest in old steam engines. This not,” she conceded. “Maybe one wasn’t so old, she stopped, standing five feet eight looking at it, reading the number inches, his right hand on the on it, 3751.
House by Shelley Alongi A well-manicured front lawn and a vinyl fence, a stone front porch with lights discretely placed so that anyone who came there was never completely in darkness. The awnings that protected guests from driving rain or hot, crushing sun welcomed Laurie Hensen to Brett McCarley’s house. The wooden carved door with swirls and circles spoke her name. Even the cool frosty morning welcomed her as Brett slid his key into the door and swung it inward to reveal the high ceiling entry hall way. “A steam locomotive?” Laurie mused in her transfixed state. “You have a picture of a steam locomotive on your entry wall?” She laughed with delight. What a strange thing to have welcoming a guest, but it was characteristic of him, being a locomotive engineer with an interest in old steam engines. This one wasn’t so old, she stopped, looking at it, reading the number on it, 3751. “I took that picture when it came through our local station,” he explained, remembering the crowds, the anticipation, and the profusion of other cameras looking for the same best spot to snap a picture of the engine built in 1929 for the Santa Fe. His lips curved into a smile of delight in her enjoyment, his heart swelling with pleasure. It had been a long time since anyone had taken pleasure from the picture welcoming a rare guest to this house. “I promise the whole house isn’t done in locomotives. I’m not that much of an artist, or that dedicated.” “I don’t believe that,” she said turning and hugging him. “I just like that picture; those brass stacks. It’s perfect.” “Honey,” he rubbed her shoulder, “I’m afraid you’ve been a bit transfixed since I met you at Union station this morning. I don’t think it’s the picture on the wall.” “Maybe not,” she conceded. standing five feet eight inches, his right hand on the