But to advantage they show when among others they stand.
When we were looking for a house in one of the river towns north of the city, my family was shown a tall gray Victorian with white trim on a stately block north of Main Street. Inside, each room felt warm and serene with polished wood moldings and the trappings of a musical and artistic life. The seller was a classical musician, and at least two rooms were fully dedicated to that art.
We loved the house, though in many ways it was the wrong house for us. We didn’t buy it, though we remembered it wistfully until we found our house. Later, I realized it wasn’t the house that I remembered with such longing. It was the tiny terra cotta pots sprinkled throughout the house, each graced with a single different colored ranunculus, that I really wanted. And though the house we bought was a wreck next to the gray house, it is the right house for us—fixed up, and filled with ranunculus each spring.