We're halfway through the year, so let me add it up:
In January, we'd just had a wonderful Christmas with our whole family -- our whole family together, not only in one state, but under one roof. It was awesome. It's the kind of thing I live for. It's my best of the best.
We'd started making payments on a sweet little trailer in Asheville and had acquired, as well, a couple acres in West Virginia that had a house that looked good, but needed work. We had the house we lived in, various lots of less than an acre, and the one acre old home place. We also had houses in Ohio county, where one renter trashed a place before setting fire to it and another stopped paying (in November 14) and was now squatting and stealing from us. Finances were not going so well, as this left only two rentals with decent people in them.
In February, we started working on the place at Glen Dale. I would alternate between believing we would have a house in a year to three and actually thinking it would be a good idea, provided we could also go to our place in Asheville. Moments of clarity assured me we could not have both and my "common sense" told me the two acres was a better deal, even though the place pissed me off every time I went there.
I took the sweetest pictures I could take of the place and tried to talk myself into seeing what it "could be", with a bit of work. One February day, as we started to work in the basement where previous owners had simply dumped the contents of the woodstove onto the floor, I rebelled and went walk-about. I walked and cussed and kicked things. My non-common-sense side said,"Look, you can work and spend every second and every penny on this place, but when you're through, you're still going to live in Glen Dale." Which is miles from even a grocery store and I'm getting no younger. I don't want to live in the wilds anymore. I want to live in a house at the edge of a town I can walk through, to a library, and attend things they do in town -- things like drum circles and open mics. I want to raise a garden in the backyard and invite friends over for fire-ring Fridays.
March, we got the plowing done for the garden. I painted tires and hauled dirt to fill them. We dug ramps and had a feast. I cleaned under the rhododendrens. I cut multiflora. I built a fire ring. I took pictures. I planted herbs and transplanted flowers. We let the trailer in Asheville go. We'd made our decision, simply because with all the deadbeat renters we had, we could no longer afford to make the payment and keep on living here, near this two sensible acres and a house-to-be.
April, flowers bloomed. I took more pictures. I put a bird bath under the lilacs. We cut long-standing clumps of weeds and skirted around areas of mint and yarrow and violet. We worked inside the house, clearing out horrid old cabinets and closets and wall coverings that were waterlogged from a leak. I got sick. He got sick. We got better and worked some more. I took a crowbar to more than the ill-thought-out closet that ate half a room. I still lamented my dreamed of life in Asheville. I set up an outdoor shrine in a hollow apple tree. We did rites on the land. We made plans. I walked the path and the perimeters.
May, he took the L-rods and walked over the land and stirred the energy. I finished the fire ring and rescued sections of huge cut locust for seating around the fire ring. We planted the garden and worked in the house. I took pictures.
June, I made peace with the plan. We'd plant fruit trees and grapes and we already had berries everywhere and walnuts and cherries. I envisioned where I'd plant small shade trees and I hung bird feeders in the yard and wind chimes on the porch. I took pictures.
One day, I worked on clearing another section of overgrown briers and weeds and had stopped to rest. I sat down on the porch and took a drink of my lemon-infused water and opened my book (The Dharma Bums) and set back and looked at the place -- the sweet breeze moving the scent of flowers closer, the shadows rippling across as the trees of the cedars swayed. I smiled a bit. Ok. I can do this. Next year, the house will be at least, partly livable and we'll have the mountain of garbage hauled off by then and people will visit and I'll cook food and I'll put the outdoor table there by the oak and we'll expand the garden and the herbs will be more established by then and I'll even make one garden for the pumpkins.
And then the fellow to whom we'd given the furnace, came out of the basement and said: "You know your house is falling down, don't you?"
He also informed us what we already knew-- the whole thing is wormy chestnut. Now to salvage and see what's next.
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