ain. I didn’t want the house. I wanted that little window, that little square of wonder.

Windows are not merely a convenience. They are the picture frames of nature’s personal story. And we are willing voyeurs.

If

Years ago, before the California real estate market went from bust to boom, I went house hunting with my family. A realtor showed me an old two-story home that was priced low and conveniently situated near a rural town center.

But what very nearly sold me on the residence was a small square window. Not much bigger than the average cereal box. Yet a whole lot sweeter.

The realtor had marched me up a narrow stairwell to show me the large attic, which he claimed – “with a little work” – was a veritable third floor. At a precarious point on the staircase, he elbowed me and said, “How about that view, eh?”

View? What view? Surely, he must be joking.

I turned and saw the small square window, placed high on the wall. Standing on my toes, I peered through the small frame and beheld a gorgeous mountainous landscape shrouded in brooding clouds and threatening rain. I didn’t want the house. I wanted that little window, that little square of wonder.

Windows are not merely a convenience. They are the picture frames of nature’s personal story. And we are willing voyeurs.

If g

But what very nearly sold me on the residence was a small square window. Not much bigger than the average cereal box. Yet a whole lot sweeter.

The realtor had marched me up a narrow stairwell to show me the large attic, which he claimed – “with a little work” – was a veritable third floor. At a precarious point on the staircase, he elbowed me and said, “How about that view, eh?”

View? What view? Surely, he must be joking.

I turned and saw the small square window, placed high on the wall. Standing on my toes, I peered through the small frame and beheld a gorgeous mountainous landscape shrouded in brooding clouds and threatening rain. I didn’t want the house. I wanted that little window, that little square of wonder.

Windows are not merely a convenience. They are the picture frames of nature’s personal story. And we are willing voyeurs.

If

e attic, which he claimed – “with a little work” – was a veritable third floor. At a precarious point on the staircase, he elbowed me and said, “How about that view, eh?”

View? What view? Surely, he must be joking.

I turned and saw the small square window, placed high on the wall. Standing on my toes, I peered through the small frame and beheld a gorgeous mountainous landscape shrouded in brooding clouds and threatening rain. I didn’t want the house. I wanted that little window, that little square of wonder.

Windows are not merely a convenience. They are the picture frames of nature’s personal story. And we are willing voyeurs.

If

I turned and saw the small square window, placed high on the wall. Standing on my toes, I peered through the small frame and beheld a gorgeous mountainous landscape shrouded in brooding clouds and threatening rain. I didn’t want the house. I wanted that little window, that little square of wonder.

Windows are not merely a convenience. They are the picture frames of nature’s personal story. And we are willing voyeurs.

If

ain. I didn’t want the house. I wanted that little window, that little square of wonder.

Windows are not merely a convenience. They are the picture frames of nature’s personal story. And we are willing voyeurs.

If gardens and neighborhoods and even the vaulted day and night sky were the least bit modest, they might blush at our relentless need to see. To see everything. But preferably in a frame. A well-placed, nicely designed window frame that contains one keen scene from the melodrama that is the great outdoors.