When I’m not preventing the dog from finding truffles and fights, or assessing the historical implications of various structures in the neighborhood, I take in the scenery. My neighborhood is filled with unexpected and unusual yard decorations.
Take the fascinating rock garden of one house I pass often. It’s a miniature henge. In the front yard. The tallest stone is about a foot tall, but I wonder about it every time I pass. I wonder if they built it to transport people to 18th century Scotland. I vaguely entertain the idea of stepping into the circle on a solstice to meet a smoking hot Highlander. Maybe *this* is why the neighborhood just to the south of mine is known as the Highlands.
My luck would be that I’d get there, and the smokin’ hot Scot would pay no attention to me as I am not a smokin’ hot English lady, and then I’d be stuck in a much worse place to be a single woman of a certain age than is 21st century Denver. Even worse than having no flushing toilet and no internet, I’d have zero prospects and would probably starve. If I could survive a few weeks to get to a big city, I suppose I could try to be a teacher or a governess, but my one year of Latin is not going to cut it in the 18th century marketplace, and having practically no French would pretty much kill that notion. I suppose common sense and basic first aid might get me a nursing job, but that alone is enough to keep me from looking ridiculous passing through the stones of my neighbor’s front yard.
Yeah. Fear of it working. That’s the ridiculous part.
Of course, it just occurred to me that the stones aren’t known to transport a person in time AND space. They aren’t exactly a TARDIS, after all. I’d be in 18th century Colorado, which means I’d be a white woman in a red man’s world. Depending on the time of year, it might be months before I would see a soul. I might have a better shot with a smokin’ hot Native American fellow, if I can manage to survive the fantastic beasts of the Rocky Mountains. Clearly, I need to start carrying a knife with me on walks in case of a sudden urge to time travel.
As I was walking the dog on Friday night, a new item had appeared in the yard. Sadly, it was not a Scot. It was, instead, a “for sale” sign. I’m now worried that the house will go to someone who won’t appreciate the curious ring of rocks in their front yard, and will have them removed. Maybe there’s someone reading this who *NEEDS* their very own stone circle, and would be interested in having it. The house is not large and you’d have to have me as a neighbor, but if you are undeterred, I can get you the details.