You Might Not Believe This (But It's True)

I forgot to tell you something pretty incredible about this new life of mine.


While I shop at my local supermarket, they play Big Band era music. And stuff from the 1950's, like Doris Day and Nat King Cole and Rosemary Clooney. Weekends and weekdays.


Oh. My. Goodness.


And it's not like this supermarket is some local Mom and Pop set-up, either. No, they're a major chain in New York and Pennsylvania and this is one of the large ones, an International.


I drive to the market early mornings, anywhere from 7:30 to 9:30 and there's Benny or Glenn or Doris or Rosemary playing or singing me down the aisles. Sometimes I even have to keep my feet from dancing. Sometimes people push their carts past me singing along with Bing or Patsy . Other times they whistle along. Or hum.


Sometimes couples, old or young, get a little playful in the aisles. One husband even embraced his wife, they slow danced a couple steps, then he twirled her by the hand.


Does it get any better than this?


I'm thinking probably not.  :)

Hmm.... In case you're wondering if this post is for real--yes, it is. Come visit me some early morning and I'll take you the six blocks to my supermarket and you can watch the magic for yourself.  It'll be fun.




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And once again, here's the amazing website Dolores shared with me filled with stations which play 1940's and 50's music.




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And speaking of  'once again' I must repeat that I'm absolutely loving my Dollar Tree book, A Matter of Choice, edited by Joan Chatfield-Taylor. Could hardly be more perfect and really, I need to get back down there to search for more treasures! (If you enjoyed Thoughts of Home and If These Walls Could Talk, guaranteed, you'll love this book, also.)




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Oh, you must do this. (Pretty please?) Go here and listen to this youtube song while picturing yourself grocery shopping. 

If you're a woman I'll bet you can't help but see yourself in a full-skirted dress and clip-on pearl earrings while pushing a cart around. This is one of the types of music my market plays and--when they do-- suddenly I'm transformed into June Cleaver.  




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Deuteronomy 8:10




"When you have eaten and are full, then you shall bless the Lord your God for the good land which He has given you."




Trust me, I have and I am!  ツ




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Of Old Drive-Ins and Ways of Life

We keep having these magical weekends.

Yesterday Tom and I drove through the countryside to two estate sales, some yard sales and I found 3 Fiestaware cups (lovely Evergreen ones) for fifty cents each and matching plates and the perfect little bookshelf  for our front porch. 

I'd asked Tom to build one for me just the day before so, hey, I made his life easier.

And then we went to Reid's. Or I should say, and then we went back to the 1950's. Wow. How have we missed this place all these 17 of our New York years? I mean, they have $1 hamburgers, $1.25 hot dogs, $1.10 French fries and shakes are $2.00 or less and an indoor dining room with retro Reid's photos and with a big window overlooking the woods and outdoor tables. The building is from 1946 and is in a country-ish setting and well, it's our new place. Not that we need to visit there all the time, but hey, it's perfect for our yard sale weekends.

It's yet one more retro destination which zooms us back in Time. And you know? We've discovered lots of those here in Western New York, but the hilarious thing is that, according to newspaper journalists, magazine writers and old friends these old vintage drive-ins with food at cheap prices Do. Not. Exist. They're gone forever just like women who wear aprons and happily live as homemakers and families like June Cleaver's and farmers with white farmhouses with barns and stone fences.

Well, we're being lied to by cynical people who don't get out much. 

I see all these things constantly--they're still around for me and for anyone with the gumption and optimism to find them. Which makes me wonder if I'm being fed this type of news from ignorant, biased reporters, how many other lies am I being told and how are they affecting the way I view my world?




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Never give-up looking for what makes your world a better place.

"You can't believe everything you read." ... copied


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Yard Sale Adventures

For ever so long I've wanted a rug with certain autumnal colors and today we found one. And for just $10. Well, it was originally $15 but good ol' Tom asked if they'd take 10.

Wow. It's a huge rug and fits perfectly in our dining room and now I'll have autumn in there even on the snowiest of days. (Our old rug was well, old. Too small. Stained. It 'had had it', as my mother would say.)



(Looks like we're living in the 1920's, doesn't it?) :)

And see the rooster, below?


He was free at a table across the street from the yard sale where I also found this:



There I was holding this sketch and staring at this girl's face and the owner, a woman, came up behind me and asked, "Do you like that?" I replied, "Yes, it's lovely." Then she said, "You can take that."

Wow! I thanked her and she went on to tell me and her friend beside us that she'd bought that sketch at a gathering of Buffalo artists in the 1960's because she found the girl's face beguiling.

I find it beguiling, too. And now I keep her sketch below one of Naomi, one created by her art teacher in high school:

Then last week I bought these two scarves at a sale for just 25 cents each, entwined them, then placed them amongst these dishes.



And lastly, here's the tin which a man gave to me at a yard sale last week, the tin and it's assorted contents.



And ok, it's scratched and has no lid, but hey! It looks nice in my kitchen and it was a gift. From the yard sale man? Well, yes. But mostly I see the tin, the sketch and the rooster, the scarves and the $10 rug as gifts from a God who is taking very, very good care of us. As He always has and always will.

R.I.P. June Cleaver

Oh dear. Barbara Billingsley, a.k.a. June Cleaver, passed away today.

Just this past week I'd researched June Cleaver online as I do sometimes and tried to find as many positive remarks as I could. It's not easy. There's such hatred out there for June and for any woman who emulates her, for whole throngs of people just don't get June and they certainly don't understand us who love her, either.


But for me? Oh my. All I have to do is look at a picture of June Cleaver, she in her dress and pearls standing inside of her tv kitchen and poof! I'm inspired to clean something. Anything. To cook and sew curtains and rearrange the furniture. Change the sheets and dust beneath the bed.


The occasional glimpse of Barbara on tv interviews had the same effect upon me. The interview would end, I'd smile, and--if I'd been sulky about cleaning house--well, the sulkiness always evaporated. I'd don an apron and yes, I'd clean something. Or fold something. And the joy, the rampant creativity and freedom of homemaking would return and hang around for days.

I love it when I can just look at a person, or simply remember her, and then feel peace or inspiration or new strength. What power there is in that. And what a necessity, especially in these turbulent days of rebellion, to know certain faces can still nudge you to do and feel right again.


God is so good to place such needed inspiration in our paths. And always, I'll be grateful for Barbara, for June, for both these women. Always, I'll be glad they were part of my world when I needed them so much.



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Here's an obituary which I thought lovely.



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Harvest Time Down On The Farm

Harvest time!

While on the train I dreamed about returning to our farm and harvesting the cherry tomatoes, apples, pears, squash, hot peppers and pumpkins, And well, that's exactly what I'm doing these days--harvesting the food on our sunny, autumnal acres and then freezing it all down in our dark, dank basement within the chest freezer I finally plugged-in.

This year I'm doing serious freezing of our harvest-- last year I only played around, froze twelve or so pints of tomato puree and a couple bags of squash and called it Good. This year, that's not good enough. Big changes have arrived and I'm taking harvest time more seriously.

And enjoying it. I've always been one to revel in the need to resurrect my pioneer spirit, and well, she's surely returned to life in the last three weeks. And she's welcome. She's fun, too, especially when she reminds me that if I do my best, God will do His. He's faithful like that.

Alas.

More Down On The Farm Pictures

Don't you just love sunflowers? They tickle my mind with thoughts of good memories and fun weekends.



These are my poor ol' farm shoes right before I threw them away. They served me well for probably six years, walked me over hundreds of miles during strolls in our former neighborhood, dark morning walks to our mailbox for the newspaper and miles behind our lawnmower here on the farm. I am not a 'shoe woman', I own probably just 5 pair of shoes, but I will miss these old faithfuls.




I bought this bowl at a yard sale because it reminded me of Peter Hunt and his young artists (a terrific website if you enjoy stories of searches for personal treasures). I first got to know Peter in Betty Cavanna's book, Paintbox Summer, a book I own and reread every single summer. Highly recommended if you can find it.



Found this dishtowel and one with a different embroidered design at a yard sale, too. As with sunflowers, these dishtowels also bring happy retro times to my mind.




Hot, sticky summer days. We're in the middle of those and I'm trying not to complain away their steaminess, lest winter arrive without my appreciating all the sunny months before it.

Happy hot summer days to you...



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Around The Ol' Farm This Morning

I wish you could hear all the bird song and smell the sweet woods behind us...

And here, below, is a cottage-style cape we passed last weekend. The pictures do it no justice, though. It's for sale and I had to talk Tom out of falling in love with that place. Hmm.. But I know how it is. I'm all the time seeing places I think I'd trade for ours in a second. (So disloyal and fickle. I know.)





(Click to enlarge.)

My Daughter's Childhood

Today is our neighbors' tiny daughter's second birthday. She was born four days after we moved into this old farmhouse so that's how I know.

I remember when my own daughter turned two. That day Tom and I kept telling her, "You're two now, Sweetie!" But she'd shake her head and say, "No! I'm three. I wanna be three now."

Ha! All that year she pretended she was three.

Oh, we had fun raising Naomi. Of course, when she was really tiny, I recall feeling tired an awful lot, but mostly? Mostly I remember the adventure of having my very own young child, how my goal was to give Naomi a dreamy, creative childhood she would remember fondly.

We put one of those baby seats on the back of my bicycle and Naomi and I often rode through old neighborhoods to the supermarket in our tiny country town. I'd place her back on the seat then plop a sack of groceries on her lap and we'd ride home, sometimes singing. Of course, the day came when she refused to hold that bag on her lap and I said good-bye to that grocery-getting convenience (I had no driver's licence at that time). But with a child, you're always saying good-bye to something.

Other times we walked to the town library inside a 1920's log cabin by the river where we'd skip rocks, then amble over to the post office to pick up the mail. We'd return home for lunch, a story and a nap, then afterward we'd play Candy Land for hours until Tom got home and I'd plead with him to play a few rounds.

We'd have company over to dinner, relatives, friends, for those were my favorite memories while growing-up and I wanted Naomi to keep similar ones. The three of us went tent camping most summers, I'd reach my hand to the car's backseat and she'd hold it (we later all laughed about that, though teen Naomi's laugh was more of a grunt) and we'd eat bad food and swim a lot and play in the sand. I'd lie in the tent at night in between my little family and feel inexplicably happy.

I grew Shasta daisies, cosmos and marigolds so Naomi would look back and remember there were flowers. We had birdbaths so she'd remember birds, strawberries and raspberries so she'd recall picking fruit in the backyard on clear, summer mornings.

As Naomi grew we let her have parties for any occasion, birthdays or Just Because days and weekend slumber parties, too. One year she had an invitation-only birthday party for our cats and I still remember standing at the door and thinking of Little Women while watching the five girls in the shady front yard reclining upon blankets on the lawn, relaxed, singing happy birthday to our cats, eating sweets and giving our cats their own treats. Watching that scene, I felt enchanted.

And grateful. I remember feeling so grateful for Naomi.

She and I had craft nights and I'd watch her tape and staple new clothes and make creations from the project box. While watching her I reminded myself that someday she'd be grown and gone away so I needed to memorize that little girl, age six, upon the living room carpet. I tried so hard to slow down time, to will it to stop for just one moment, but it sped by even faster at those times, as if laughing at my attempts. I thought it wasn't fair.

But it was fair and it was Life. And I would say that those years are gone, but you know? They're still here. Anytime I wish I can pull out a memory, shine it till it gleams, then put it back again. Because even in the midst of my tiredness during those early years, oh, I reminded myself to stay awake, to not turn my head, to not miss one single moment of my daughter's childhood.





Naomi at thirty...





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Want another young Naomi story? Here's one.

And another with mentions of feeding seagulls.


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Our Day At The Country Fair

You might not believe me, but yesterday Tom and I finally did a fun non-yard-sale-related activity(!) We went to our Little Town In The Middle of Nowhere's annual country fair.

You would have loved it.

The fair was tiny, held behind the town library in the parking lot and surrounding lawns. No rides, no fireworks, no big, exciting shebangs.

Nah, just a classic car show, line dancers, food, a book sale and plant sale, raffles,pony rides and an Idol contest with adorable little farmgirls all under 12 or so. And tractors! Probably 100 tractors were lined up, some participating in the tractor games, which, when announced, I leaned over and asked Tom, "Is that anything like reindeer games?" heh.

We sat beneath a tent eating hamburgers and chips, watching people, and Tom smiled and said, "This is our town." And that seemed to say it all.

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If I were Queen, all sheriffs' cars would look like this:

(Do check out the cherry light on top.)

And most cars would still resemble these:

And most tractors would look like this:



And half the dogs people bring with them to country fairs would be as sweet and beautiful as this one:

As I said, you would have loved it and in a way, you all were there beside me. I do tend to take you along wherever I go and oh, the old-fashioned places we see together!










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Become What You Miss

I think you'll love Sara's post. I certainly did. In fact, you might want to read it before you read mine (I'll wait for you. I promise.)

Sara spoke of missing certain things from her childhood, especially the old-fashioned patriotism many folks proudly spoke of and displayed. Then in her comment box a couple friends of hers wrote what they missed.

And while reading those comments this came to me: Become what you miss.

Do you miss a kind grandmother? Become a kind grandmother to a child. Make her childhood memory-filled. Do you miss Sunday drives in the countryside? Take those drives, yourself, and bring someone with you. Do you miss old-fashioned gardens or picking berries? Grow your own garden or help a friend tend hers. Plant berry bushes in your yard or consult your phone book for local farms which will allow you to pick from theirs. Take a friend or a child berry-picking with you.

We can stretch-out the Past, extend its delights by being or creating what we miss.

Yes, we can, too!

But I think we choose easy routes, instead. You know, we drive along Complaining Way. We take Good Old Days Are Gone Forever Street. We make a wrong turn onto Bitterness Blvd. or Whining Lane or Can't Go Back Court.

Today start being what you miss.

Buy a flag and anchor it to the front of your house. Take your kids or grandkids on an old-fashioned picnic to a place you went as a child or a place resembling it. (Don't have any kids or grandkids? Borrow some.) Find an outdoor drive-in restaurant and go for ice cream (don't tell me they don't exist. We still have many around Buffalo.) Plan a family reunion. Visit a mom and pop cafe and help them remain in business. Visit your ailing neighbor. Smile at everyone you pass by.

Don't feel safe today? Ask God to show you how He protects you. Don't feel the love you felt as a child? God still loves you like that--and once you know that love you can go around sharing it. Don't feel as creative as you once did? Begin a creativity quest. You can get it back, I promise. But you have to want it enough--and not give-up the quest too early.

Need I go on?

Now go read Sara's post if you haven't already and the comments, too. You'll understand my own post better. Then go out and enjoy an old-fashioned day. Do that daily and you'll create an old-fashioned life.


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Sometimes we miss the old-fashioned things still thriving all around us because we stopped searching when we believed they no longer existed.


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We are not helpless to create the life we dream of (or a perfectly delightful version of it)!

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A tiny bit more since sometimes I don't know when to shut-up:

Do you miss seeing old cars from the 1940's 50's and 60's? Find out where classic car shows are held in your area.

Miss 1950's and 60's decor in homes? Decorate your own home like that. Can't afford it? Sell the modern stuff you already have and use the money for old things found at yard sales, Ebay, etc. Ask for retro things for your birthday and Christmas.

Miss parades? Attend the next local one. Miss ice cream socials? Suggest one at your church or attend a community one or hold your own, maybe even ask your friends to dress in old-time clothing. Make it fun!

A Clothesline of My Own

Oh happy, happy day.


The last time I had my very own outdoor clothesline was in California way back in 1988(!) I remember being a young mom and hanging clothes in the backyard, stopping suddenly while geese flew and honked overhead, watching them and feeling enchanted all the rest of the afternoon. And even without the geese, I've always found hanging laundry outside a very dreamy, retro sort of thing.


At our last house, I had access to a clothesline, though, in our neighbor's yard from 1993 to around 2002. Nancy loved for me to use hers, even to the point of being a little hurt if I didn't. But sometimes she wanted to hang her clothes or our neighbor on the other side did, so the clothesline could become a rather crowded place and you had to choose your wash times wisely.


And yes, our own yard was so minuscule that there was no room for a clothesline. Trust me, I tried for 15 years to find space for one. We have no dryer, by choice, so I've always hung clothes inside the house, though a few times I lugged our wooden dryer rack outside, usually to have the clothes blow away or the rack fell down. (Are you getting why I'm so excited today?)


And technically, remember our little apartment where we lived for 6 months last year? Well, there was a clothesline just outside our kitchen window, one which I shared with our neighbor upstairs, always wondering if my clothes were in her way, etc.


Oh but now, after all these 21 years, I have a clothesline of my very own. Now I can be like all the other homemakers on the block.


And I'm hoping the geese will fly joyfully overhead soon.

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Being a celebrator of just about everything, I especially loved Kim's post today.

Of Dreams and Tennis Courts

Another country town had its annual town-wide yard sales, so Tom and I traveled miles of country roads  to step upon acres of yards belonging to 1800's farmhouses. 

I probably missed scads of good stuff placed upon tables because with amazing 70 degree breezes upon my face, I stared at the tall, old houses and their barns until I had them memorized and could carry away ideas for my own yard, also.


Here is something I bought for a dollar, something which conjures up the old days:




And while we drove to more yard sales at more farmhouses, that sign behind me made me long for a tennis court of our own. 

There's a bungalow style house near us, which has an old clay tennis court set-off behind it, surrounded by trees and a tall, rusty 'cage'. That place charms me, instantly flashing images of white-clad folks in the 1940's batting tennis balls over the net. 

Always, I think, "What a great place to have a bed-and-breakfast inn." Tom and I usually proceed to wish aloud for a tennis court in our back meadow and we sigh some more and say how cool that would be. And how expensive.

Anyway. We ate lunch at an outdoor rummage sale at a church, circa 1830, on a (normally) quiet hilltop, across from an old white school, and overlooking acres of fields below. And finally, a few more sales later, we grew tired and drove home.

And when I unloaded the tennis court sign from the car,I still craved our own tennis court, even though Tom and I only played tennis one time, when we were first married, and ended the game in a huge argument. (Hence why we've never played again, although 30 years later, the problem would not be potential arguments, but most likely, the fact that we're out-of-shape.) 

But if we had a tennis court, I reasoned? Our overnight guests I'm still seeing inside my head could play.

I stood outside with the sign, facing the barn, wondering if we could hang it there, when the idea hit me. I ran inside to tell Tom about my sudden vision.

"Hey Tom! I know how we can have a tennis court for free!"

"For free?" Tom asked, looking rather doubtful.

"Well, we'd have to buy a net and posts--maybe we could get them at a yard sale, even."

"How could we get a court for free?"

"You know how we're going to have blacktop poured in front of the barn? Well, we could have the guys sink in two post-receivers, or whatever you call them, coming out from the center barn doors. That's a pretty large space out there and I think it would be big enough for a court!"

He smiled. Thought that was a cute idea. He said instead of arena football, we could have arena tennis." (I asked what that meant, and he said arena football is held on a smaller-scale field. Heh.)

Of course, a tennis court wouldn't actually be free-free, but hey. We're going to have the blacktop poured anyway. A net across it and maybe a few painted lines here and there would be like an added bonus for almost nothing.

Dreams. They're exciting. Even if they never come to fruition, still, it's fun playing with ideas inside your head. 

Remember my Secret Garden behind our barn? Well, that's a dream on-hold. I started it but currently, it's a weedy mess. We'll see how that goes.

Anyway, I'm learning to crave balance. To think and work one flower bed at a time, till its completion--but-- to remember all the other flower beds,gardens and house projects and not carry home more projects than I can complete in a summer (or a winter, etc.). 

And to remember that dreams with God's approval happen. My dreams, alone? Oh dear. Good luck.

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I loved that adorable little wicker stool at the top of this. It was perhaps my favorite find this weekend, next to the tennis sign, of course. Isn't it sweet?

Lovin' Bob The Milkman

Ha! Thought that title might wake you up. :)

Actually, what I mean is that I love how it is Bob (and not me) who drives my groceries over snowy, icy roads and sets them right on top of my 1940's formica kitchen table. I putter around a warm home and voila! Bottles and cartons of milk, juice and buttermilk and tubs of cottage cheese and yogurt and sticks of butter and pounds of cheese appear right inside my kitchen. Almost by retro-magic.

And something else... Now when I watch June Cleaver take a bottle of milk from her refrigerator, I no longer think, "Oh, how far away and removed from now, June and her milk bottles." No, instead I say, "I do that too, June! I pour our milk from glass bottles while wearing my apron--no crisp dress and pearls, though. But oh, you make me want to wear them."

In fact, you know how many ol' fussbudgets declare that, now, in 2008, the Good Old Days are gone forever... and how no one delivers milk in bottles anymore? Well, they are wrong. On both counts.

And you may quote me.

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Now playing outside our dining room window:



Oh please do click on the top kitchen photo. You simply won't believe what is written on the milk bottle! :)

Time Warp Wives

My online friend, Anne, has come through again. And in her words I say to you, "You've got to read this."

(I giggled through the entire thing and positively yearned for these women to live on my street. This so inspired me--let me know if it inspires you!)


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Thanks, Anne!

So yesterday after unpacking more boxes (will it never end?) I had an amazed thought. I'd not been away from the house since Monday and here it was Thursday. 

Not ages, just a long time for me. So I ran upstairs to get out of my 'play clothes' (as I call them here) and, because Tom was sleeping after having worked night shift, I had access to our car. I'd never even driven around town by myself since finding this house in March. In fact, here is a rather comprehensive list of our town's businesses, most of which are on Main Street:

Rite Aid
An old convenience store-type place with gas pumps, a tiny video rental 'closet' and hamburger stand with a few tiny tables.
True Value
Three restaurants, one summertime frosty shack
One bar

A pizza take-out , a deli
Three hair salons
An antique shop
A teeny clothes shop
One bank

A funeral home
The post office
The library
An elementary/middle school combo

... and well, that's about it.

But I love it. Of course, an honest-to-goodness supermarket would make it perfect, but how often do we get perfection? We're around nine miles from the nearest real supermarket, seven or so miles from a small-time grocery.

Anyway, so I was going to turn into the Rite Aid parking lot, but a truck blocked most of the driveway, so I decided to cruise down Main Street a bit farther. And that's when I remembered the library! 

We'd lived here a whole week and not once had the library entered my brain. There's something wrong with that.

I pulled into the library's parking lot and realized I'd been unbalanced again. Too much concentration on unpacking boxes, planning my garden and attempting to decorate this house to completion in, like, seven days.

Of course, moving and going from city life to country life is a big deal and moving is high up on everybody's Top Stresses List. But still, forget the adventure of a new-to-me library? Moi? There was a lesson in that and I think I learned it. 

Slow down. In its correct time, all will get done so enjoy it and remember variety!

I loved talking with the librarian (who reminded me of Tom's mom), had a sweet hour wandering through the few shelves getting acquainted with the books, finding old friends like Elizabeth Enright, Eleanor Estes and new friends as well, three of whom I carried home.

Oh, it's like I'd walked into a vintage summer-time book, myself.

I drove back down to Rite Aid, browsed their shelves (and gasped a lot--ah, tiny town prices. I remember them well from having lived in teensy Chester, CA for 11 years).

Then, after over-shooting our street and having to turn around (it's an easy street to miss, trust me), I ate my little tub of strawberry yogurt and began a library book, rather than returning to the boxes (which will someday be unpacked). 

I breathed slower, deeper, and stared out our huge dining room bay window (the dining room is my favorite. Soon I'll try getting photos to you, I promise). There's an ancient, sprawling crab apple tree which fills the three windows and yellow finches visit our thistle feeder all day long--they hang upside down to eat and Tom and I smile at them.

Country life is incredible. I recommend it.



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More Ideas

You can't read Mary Jane without becoming inspired by her ideas. And so here are some more ideas I've played with this past week.

At our new little farm I'd love to have an occasional (twice a year?)weekend gathering of women who I could take back to the 1940's with me. Well, you know... they could come to my house from near or from far and we could wear calico or gingham aprons and bake from scratch and listen to Big Band Era music. We could totally avoid present-day news and instead, watch old black and white movies while curling each others' hair and eating the desserts we baked.

We could take long walks past more 1800's homes and farms then return and putter in the garden. Or climb around in the barn. Or set pretty tables outside with cloths and glass jars of flowers and eat potato salad and sandwiches and chat in sunshine.

We could sit in the shade and browse through 1930's homemaking magazines and share old-fashioned dreams which we have for our futures or share about we are in our lives-- empty-nesters, single women or mommies still in the trenches.

We could gather eggs from chickens, redecorate a room, make crafts and take photos or naps. We could sweep up our hair into pony tails and scarves then stroll down to the Malt Shoppe for ice cream and 1950's music.

So does that sound like a fun weekend to anyone? I'm all dreamy-eyed just rolling it all around inside my head.

We're back! From seeing the above farmhouse, that is. We loved the barn and the peaceful 3.8 acres and I could envision myself strolling the valley-like land on summer mornings. The current owners even have chickens in the barn and two Angora sheep (we believe they were. Huge ol' hairy things on tiny, skinny legs--it's surprising they don't topple over).

And the house? Did I tell you it was built in 1880? Lots of ancient stuff in there--old original doors, even pocket doors and a butlers' type pantry--a tiny one. Tall ceilings and three huge windows in the dining room--nearly all the downstairs windows are almost floor-to-ceiling, making for a very sunny, cheerful house.

But, as with any old house, it comes with problems. The floors in three rooms downstairs need to be refinished big-time, "Before we move in," I told Tom. Life is simpler that way and we never did refinish our floors in our last house because we hated considering shoving all that furniture around. Fortunately we know the greatest, most honest carpenter in the world and he just happens to live near that house. Tom called him minutes ago--Tom is, surprisingly, more excited than I am.

Yet I told him I wouldn't even consider the house if I can't paint the natural woodwork, white. For 14 years I lived with woodwork he wouldn't let me paint and it nearly made me insane, me and my paint-happy hands. He said, "Ok. I promise you can paint it. It's only yellow pine, anyway. Not like it's oak--that would be different." I told him I'd take that in writing, thank-you.  シ

The stairs? They're are only the enclosed kind and they're off the kitchen. Now, I've always wanted stairs off of a kitchen, but only in addition to a swirling stairway near the front door. But oh well. And there's no window over the kitchen sink--yet if you turn your head sideways at the sink you can see outside through a window in the kitchen door and one in the large back entryway.

But overall, it's a very livable house as it is and any work would only improve upon it. A very sturdy, good bones house.

We adore the tiny country town where this house stands. Just 15 miles from where we live, yet it felt and appeared like a whole different state. We ate lunch at the only restaurant there and everybody was friendly beyond belief. Genuine country folk. We'd not even seen the house yet, but after that meal, we were ready to move there.

All those countryside drives we've taken over the years! Instead of always driving back home, someday we hope to drive out there and stay. For five years, or so, since hey. There's a whole lot of land to care for and Tom and I are no longer young chickadees.

Stay tuned.


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I really appreciate all your comments to the post where I first spoke of this house. Thanks for your stories, warnings and encouragement!


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