Living in an old farmhouse takes care of my free time. There’s always something, and whatever you have to do always leads to two other problems. Putting in windows? Ah, well, lookee here, we have a joint problem. Need a new tub? Not before that floor gets jacked up and reworked. I’ve lived here enough years to have adopted an attitude of reluctant humor about the whole thing, but I’m still not used to the fawning “oh, an old farmhouse, you must love it there” responses of people who don’t have any idea what they’re talking about. Love it? Well, yes, the location is ideal, although we’d tear the bleeping thing down if we could afford it.
Nothing’s level, nothing’s finished, and we keep finding more junk. Just when you think it’s whipped and taken care of, there’s something else. All that needs done is larger than my mind can embrace, so I think of it in terms of bite-sized chunks, knowing that I may well be retired with great-grandchildren before the larger goals are accomplished.
