Nancy Thompson - True Confessions of the Stratford Park PTA

There’s no foyer. The screened front door opens right into the living room, which is complete with polished hardwood floors and a fireplace, though why one would need a fireplace in Florida baffles me. Off to the left is a tiny galley kitchen and dining alcove; to the right, a squat hallway holds the lone bathroom and our bedrooms.

It’s about half the size of our house in Asheville, but the place is bright and cheerful, furnished in white wicker and shades of yellow. Generous windows in the living room invite in an abundance of light.

I’m soothed by the hominess of the place.

It’s such a beautiful day, I open the front door and windows to air out the closed-up musty smell places take on when they haven’t been lived in. My bedroom window looks out toward the lake. I open the blinds and stand there a minute enjoying the quiet of the house, the way the green lawn slopes down to the lake. I love the huge live oaks, the way the Spanish moss that’s draped on the branches dances in the wind.

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