When Jack placed his sleeping baby in her basonet, Jack glanced out the large window overlooking the mountains and stopped. Everything had been so hectic lately that he had hardly stopped to remember where they had come from. But seeing the mountains put him in mind of a memory:
"Oh my goodness, Jack! Look at that view!"
Jack followed his wife's enthusiastic gaze and looked across at mountains and grassy fields. "Yes."
"Yes? Isn't it wonderful? We'll have to have a big window right here, looking out on that."
Jack reached out and cuddled Stacy into his chest from behind. His wife did not respond, just continued looking around excitedly and pulled his arms away from her, gripping his wrist to drag him into the old barn structure.
"Look at all of this potential!"
Stacy whirled in a circle, letting out a little giggle and jumped into Jack's arms in a rib-crushing hug. Jack wrapped his arms around her, gazing up at the holes in the ceiling. The light shifted through them, casting a patchwork pattern on the ground. The floorboards beneath them creaked.
"Mmmhmm."
The old barn was to be their new home. It would be renovated, added to, and transformed into a large farmhouse-type home. But for now, despite Stacy's enthusiasm, the structure was still just a decaying, moss-covered hunk of stone and metal.
Stacy pulled away and peered into Jack's face. "You're being skeptical again."
"Yes."
"Well, stop it."
"I can't help it," Jack pulled away. His eyes travelled the length of the old barn, taking in each of its imperfections and he catalogued them in his mind, growing more weary as he went. "I'm confident in the addition we're adding to it, but is this thing even structurally sound? Shouldn't we be tearing this down?"
Stacy gasped in horror. "This barn is this town's oldest structure."
"It looks it."
"Jack!"
Jack hunched his shoulders and put his hands in his pockets. "I'm just saying, are we wasting our time and money here?"
"No!"
"You don't think you're being a little unrealistic?"
Stacy groaned and rolled her eyes. "This again?"
"Again?" Jack asked, a frown coming over him. "What again?"
"This."
Jack stayed silent and Stacy groaned again, throwing out her arms and then crossing them as if unsure. She paced for a moment, turning her back to Jack briefly.
"Jack, you always question my judgement."
"I do not!"
"You do."
"When?"
"Now, for starters."
Jack paused. "You can't use now as an example when you're making a blanket statement like that."
Stacy stamped her foot. "I can and I will!"
It was Jack's turn to roll his eyes. "Now you're just being childish."
"See?" Stacy whined. "You act like I'm a kid and I can't make decisions by myself!
"No!
"Yes!"
"Maybe," Jack surprised himself by agreeing. Then scrambled to continue, "But I just like being realistic and I feel as though that... sometimes... just doesn't... happen with you."
Jack's words were hesitant and he felt as though something in him was trying to stop them as they spewed out. Jack immediately regretted his words. Stacy's jaw dropped and she stared at Jack. Slowly, tears filled her eyes. Jack didn't react quickly enough and she had turned away from him. Stacy folded in on herself and came to a crouch on the ground.
Jack waited, mouth moving without any sound. Then Stacy stood and turned to him. She had wiped her face clean and her face was set in a determined mask.
"I get your concern," she murmured, but her words cut through like a knife. "But we've done it now, you've voiced your concerns and you will support me with this."
His wife had been right. It was the right move for them. Their home was cherished and loved, built from the ground up with their own hands, and in times where they had to remain home, it had everything they had ever wanted. They had needed this project to get them through and discover more about themselves.
Jack made his way to their bedroom, where his overly exciteable wife was hanging some new painting she had made. Over the last few years, she'd filled his life with such incredible love, friendship and growth, he could never have imagined it. As he leaned against the door frame and watched her work, chattering away about nothing and everything, he renewed his promise not to question her idealistic ways again.
About the Creator
Jaimie
Amateur writer
Peanuts and Crackerjack
Bottom of the ninth inning. The game is tied with two outs, two strikes and a man on second. I tap the bat on home plate. The rigid vibrations it creates reminds my aching digits that this isn't over. The practice swing only adds to the heft of mental burnout... Man on second, willing to chance it. Pitcher eyes him but doesn't give in to the dangerous bluff. I kick up dust, readying the peculiar stance I've had since the days of little league. The bat lays stiff upon my cramping shoulder. Pain has no reason to be acknowledged; it's a fleeting afterthought. The sun sits passed high noon, but the stadium lights are on anyway. They trick my brain into believing they are the cause of this sweltering heat. Sporadic clouds are motionless, they too, don't want to miss this exhilarating predicament. Anticipating the next pitch, intensifying roars from the crowd rumble the stadium... Behind me, the crafty catcher adjusts his stance and spits to the dry dirt. Behind him, the staunch umpire doesn't flinch or even blink; he knows how important his call will be. The pitcher winds up, his grip tells me its gonna curve. The release is fierce! Beads of sweat from his hair and face disperse in every direction as the force of his might is unfailing. My left leg lifts—an instinctual move that will increase the power of my swing. It's all down to my two, bloodshot eyes. They lock onto the speeding, white dot as it instantly becomes the target I intend to destroy. The swing is late, but I manage a solid tip. The ball is taking a fast bounce toward the pitcher who is recovering from the almighty throw! Man on second leaves in a desperate rush! I fling the bat to the side with a sense of urgency and make a mad sprint to the only destination I have—first base. Three defenders race inward to be the first to retrieve the skidding ball. Man is almost on third! I watch the open glove of my adversary, wondering if I’ve done enough to win this race. I switch my attention to his eyes, looking for a clue, some kind of reaction that tells me the ball is in the air and heading his way. All I see is frustration. The deafening roar of the crowd spikes! Something happens that I can’t see! My opponent abandons his post right as my left stride touches the bag. I waste no time turning my head to see the pitcher laying on his stomach, pounding the mound with an open glove. He misses the opportunity to out me and the ball has quickly bounced past him. Excitement grows! This isn’t over yet... It's become an imperative fight to tag out the runner heading homeward. The catcher falls to his knees in obvious despair as he watches my teammate make the run of his life. He knows it’s going to be close when he sees the shortstop fumble the ball a second too long. I jump up and down with no plans on leaving first base. All my chips are on the speed and agility of the active runner. His cleats dig into the dirt, trailing a dust-filled cyclone from the rapid and strenuous strides. With a thrusting dive and an outstretched arm, he lands on his chest to begin the crucial slide to home plate. The shortstop fires the ball to the catcher! It immediately begins closing the gap! Nail-biting doesn't begin to describe the anxious vibe permeating the stadium. The bench begins to celebrate even before he reaches the plate. Forty thousand cheering fans reach maximum crescendo, filling the air with a glorious sound. Everyone knows how this story will end… My teammate is met by the entire bench as his fingers inch across home plate, instantly followed by the unmistakable motion of the catcher's glove attempting to tag him out—its milliseconds too late. The ump swings his arms outward, officially calling him safe.
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