Charlie Chan and the Writers Cottage

Our property is L-shaped. Our home occupies half or so of the long part. At the end of the L is a little one room house that sits apart. It's admittedly in rough shape - the cement floor is cracked, and the wallpaper is faded and peeling. I can't tell whether the sag towards the center is caused by the floor or the house itself. When we first visited the property the little cottage had this mysterious air to it. I wanted to fix it before we tackled the home, but Christina said that was foolish and typical and I suppose she was right.

At the closing, the seller said that her parents were the third owners of the house, and she had heard that the  first owner, a writer, had built the cottage as a writing studio. She had used it for sleepovers, but it had begun to fall into ruin. Anyway, it was a charming story.

In talking to the neighbors yesterday we learned a little more. The story goes that it was Earl Derr Biggers who moved to the house in the early 1920s and it was he who had the little cottage built and in it he put a pot bellied stove and a desk. In that cottage he wrote the Charlie Chan novels, or at least the first four. I have to conduct more research.

It made me think of Dylan Thomas's writing shed in Laugharne, Wales.

THE REV ELI JENKINS' POEM TO THE MORNING

Dear Gwalia, I know there are
Towns lovlier than ours.
And fairer hills and loftier still,
And groves more full of flowers.

And boskier woods for blithe with spring,
And bright with birds adorning,
And sweeter bards than I to sing
Their praise this beauteous morning.

By Cader Idris, tempest torn,
Or Moel Yr Wyddfa's glory;
Carnedd Llewelyn, beauty born;
Plinlimmon, old in story.

By mountains where King Arthur dreams,
By Penmeanmawr defiant,
Llareggub Hill a molehill seems;
A pygmy to a giant.

By Sawdde, Senny, Dovey, Dee,
Ely, Gwili, Ogwr, Nedd;
Small is our River Dewi, Lord,
A baby on a rushy bed.

By Carreg Cennen, King of Time,
Our heron head is only
A bit of stone with seaweed spread,
Where gulls come to be lonely.

A tiny dingle is Milk Wood,
By Golden Grove 'neath Grongar;
But let me choose and oh! I should
Love all my life and longer.

To stroll among our trees and stray
In Goosegog Lane, on Donkey Down,
And hear the Dewi sing all day,
And never, never leave the town.

(from Under Milk Wood by Dylan Thomas)