Between Pittsburgh and Erie, off I-79, (or as my dad calls it, the Festival of Barrels given its constantly-under-construction status), through sleepy college towns and rural one-stop villages, around a million blind corners and just at a sweating hot dip of pavement, there’s a gravel drive that runs up a small hill. The grass really is greener here, but that might be thanks to runoff from the cow pasture at the top of the hill, and the faulty septic system that passes under the front yard. Still. It’s pretty.
The Cottage has been in my family for over a hundred years, and it looks like it.
The rest of this post is over at Deeper Family today. What’s caught your childlike fancy this summer?