My first nice room was in our Pensacola house, the one I bought when Dave was away. I forged his name on the sales contract.
I painted my nice room the perfect shade of green. Dave installed bright white crown molding, wood floors and double doors for privacy. It was a light and bright, the perfect spot for a room of cottage antiques, with floor to ceiling windows overlooking the yard.
Everything had a place in my nice room. My favorite plant sat elevated in a chippy, white, iron planter by the window. My grandmother's porcelain birds perched high in the upper level window sill were a constant reminder that my Ninie, my paternal grandmother, is always with me. An antique print of Jesus surrounded by children and flowers, one that I took from my father's storage shed long ago, hung behind a comfy plaid yellow couch with overstuffed pillows.
My nice room was and continues to be a place where I sit quietly to comb through decorating magazines or gather my thoughts when I can't think straight. Every mother deserves one. I'll have to transfer an interior picture from our back-up hard drive. Check back.
|The exterior of our Pensacola house. My nice room in just inside the tall windows to the left of the door.|