There’s this belief in the writing world that “less is more.” Now, I believe… in the writing world and beyond.

It was a sweet townhouse and a stone’s throw from Bubba’s Sports Bar where the French fries were greasy and a marquee out front said something either corny or clever like “Beer is Beautiful.”

Original homeowners lived in some of the surrounding houses, which were mostly bungalows built before WWII.

When P and I were courting, he was leasing the townhouse. He’d left his law firm and was working for himself. I freelanced for various production companies, taught aerobics at the downtown Y, and in between, wore a tuxedo and carried a silver tray around often serving hors d’oeuvres to the same folks I’d met the night before when out on a date with P.

Three years later, I moved into the townhouse as a bride and part homeowner. We had little money. In fact, we owed some, but God those days were sweet ... and so was our townhouse.

We had little in it but love for one another. You could count our pieces of furniture on both hands. The walls were sheet rock — looking as though Zorro had zoomed through, making giant X’s with a white paintbrush.

For our first party, on a Super Bowl Sunday, we rented a big screen TV and everyone ate dinner on the living room floor. Guests came out of the downstairs bathroom cracking jokes about the, “designer wallpaper.”

The townhouse stood tall. Picture a dogtrot turned right side up. Most of the time, I referred to it as the “Teepee.” A friend, also a prop master, took the term literally and said he spent a whole afternoon driving up and down Taggart street actually looking for a wigwam.

“Hell Katie,” he laughed, “I figured you really lived in one!”

Although P and I weren’t young, our love was and it filled that townhouse from basement to attic like a Christmas stocking. Our life, like our home, was uncluttered. Communicating, less complicated. Technology or rather the lack thereof, spoke volumes. We had one TV (eventually two), a microwave and a Realistic stereo system (turntable that is) with speakers the size of my grandmother’s travel trunks.

As do most homes, ours had its idiosyncrasies, but one in particular became a real nuisance. Later, it came to me as something else entirely.

I wouldn’t say the house had a leak. Rather, a leak lived in our house. Happily, I should add, just above the fireplace in our bedroom. Whenever it rained, water didn’t drip down the wall, it streamed. We’d grab towels and pack them on top of the mantel, then rush to the phone and call the builder, who couldn’t have been nicer, or like the leak, more persistent.

This became such a regular routine that soon, the builder was calling us at the slightest sign of a sprinkle. I’d answer the phone and with dread in his voice, hear, “PLEASE tell me it’s not leaking.”

There were countless attempts to repair the leak and probably as many different roofers, but still, the rain poured in.

Over the years, though, the water stains on the wall became something beautiful to me, like art. When natural light hit it during a certain time of day, it seemed to take on something spiritual. Sometimes I’d open my eyes in the morning and see a horse’s mane blowing in full stride. Other times, I’d see “Marble Fudge” ice cream, melting. During the fall, as the angle of light changed, the wall appeared vapor-like — minutes later — like a view of the Grand Canyon from outer space.

Others weren’t quite so enthralled. One evening, a dinner guest (also real estate agent) asked if she might have a tour of the teepee. When we entered the master bedroom, she quickly got a gander of the wall and made a moaning sound. Rather than pointing to its beauty I explained that we’d tried everything under the sun, but that the leak, seemingly, had a life of it’s own.

P didn’t find the wall nearly as fascinating but nor did he find it bothersome or seem set on fixing it.

As more time and water went by, the more wonderful this wall became. I left the mantel empty so that nothing would obstruct the view of what was alive and clearly growing ... from above.