The house had stood empty for six months before a moving van bulged in the driveway. Normally, I don’t press my nose to my livingroom window, but the fascinating items rolling down the ramp of the large moving van held me captive. The only furnishing I could identify with certainty was a large carved wooden chest inlayed with colorful jewels dazzling in the sun’s morning light. If I didn’t know better everything else carried through the double front doors resembled parts and pieces of a seaworthy vessel. After three burly men carried in a huge carved mermaid my imagination rode on high waves of anxiety, turning the pit of my stomach over and over, while I studied the sea sickening adventure that had capsized across the street.

By mid-morning my neighborly etiquette prodded me from the window and nudged me into the kitchen. I set to work mixing up a batch of cinnamon rolls, making random trips and sneak peeps to the picture window. Once the dough was left to rise in the covered bowl I dashed back to the front window. Heavens, was a porthole from a ship being carried through the front door? The need to sit forced me to drag a chair from the dining to the window. Now, if I could prune my purple hydrangea bush I’d have a perfect view from my comfortable position.

After craning my neck in every angle possible to afford a better view, I claimed defeat and scurried to check on my dough. It was rising nicely. An idea rose in my head too. Wouldn’t a bouquet of hydrangea’s be a nice welcoming gesture also? I donned my garden gloves and headed for my bush.

“Hey lubber, pick up those feet smartly and get in here.” I froze, garden clippers poised in midair, fearing the gruff voice inside the house across the street was aimed at me.

“Aye aye, hold your pants on,” a deep voice replied from the van in a harsh tone.

“A bilge rat could work faster than you,” sailed the voice from the house.

I clipped away at my bush double-time creating my own porthole. Back inside my kitchen I arranged the flowers in a coffee can, then set to work rolling, cutting, and placing the dough into pans to rise once more.

My hasty creative pruning proved to offer a perfect view from my front row seat. Odd accessories continued to travel from the van into the house. Time ticked by. The scent of cinnamon bathed the air. I pulled the golden gooey rolls from the oven and slathered them with cream cheese frosting. With a plate of warm rolls and flowers in hand, I started off at a trot across the street. The moving van was gone. A scull and crossbones flag flapped above the double front doors. I stopped. Everything in me wanted to retreat and take cover. My feet needed constant urging to mark every tiny step forward. I poked a finger at the doorbell and worked to still my shaking knees.

Both doors sprang open. The rolls and flowers suddenly grew heavy as I stared into the shriveled form of the one eyed fossilized man. Behind him on the far entry wall stood the mermaid. “Ahoy! Well me beauty what have you got there?”

“Wel...welcome to the neighborhood,” I sputtered.

The glint in his eye settled on me with admiration. “Mmm, this beats anything I’ve ever seen crawl out of a ships bung hole.”

To my surprise he took the flowers first and pressed them under his nose. “Ahhh, could heaven be as sweet?” With the sweep of his hand he motioned for me to come inside.

A tug of war ensued with my feet and head. My curiosity won. Clutching the plate of rolls I followed his lead. From my quick survey every detail of the house was in the process of being transformed into a ship. Thick ropes, wooden poles, and two portholes clung to the walls. Overhead, a large sail billowed from the ceiling. The effect left me fighting instant seasickness.

He set an anxious eye on me. “You’ve turned as green as a frog.” He took the plate from my hand and led me to a wooden bench. “Can I get you some grog?”

I gazed around the room blinking at wooden barrels and a rusty anchor until my eyes settled on a picture of a young and handsome sea captain. “No...no thank you. I’m feeling better already.”

“That’s good. His thin form straightened and stretched out like a sail pull taunt. I’m Captain Kirkpatrick Bennett the fourth. Glad to have you aboard the Lady Luck.” He bent in the middle and bowed low.

“Mrs. Lyla Simms.”

“Is your shipmate at home?”

“Shipmate?”

“Your husband.”

“Oh, no. I’m a widow.”

“Aye!” Captain Bennett’s eyebrows sprang upward and met his thick, silver hairline. “Me beauty you are a treasure more valuable than a trunk of gold.”

I settled myself more comfortably on the bench, already knowing what I would bake and bring over tomorrow.