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The Sieve And Crockery Jar |
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Between the foot of our bed and the divider that separated our “living area” from our “kitchen,” the old mansion’s handsome main cook-stove. Coal fired, I think. The big duct still enters as if it carried heat from the stove, but I think there was another central furnace somewhere; we never saw this with fire in it. Good thing: the gray surface that conceals (perhaps replaces) the old cook-top might not have survived high temperatures. 
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By the door at the south end of the ice-man’s corridor, a cute little hutch-cum-desk, perennially cluttered with the business materials of the lodging-house and of our nascent household. I’d study there, too. Half-visible, hanging on the door to the corridor: my black wool “galette” (beret) from France, and Valerie’s umbrella and head-scarf, ready for sallying forth into the weather. This was our doorway to our wonderful main (back) exterior entrance, about which more soon. |
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