Fine. I’ll give myself until 9 a.m. to get this party started.
Seth and I spent a weekend in the bush.
There is no sound that brings greater heartbreak than a weed wacker that has been abruptly snagged on a sharp metal object. That sound filled the acreage on Possum Street several times this weekend, as Seth and I donned long pants and finally put a dent in the piles of junk around the barn.
“Oh good … now we don’t need to buy a vacuum cleaner, car door, ceiling fan, large mysterious sheet of metal, etc.”
These people were ridiculously poor stewards of their property.
Ah, well, it makes for good, dirty work.
I was covered in dirt, plant clippings, blood, thorns, etc, when I see a sparkling clean lady carrying a glass of wine down my driveway. Our neighbors. The ones with the giant deck overlooking the golf course. The ones who pay someone to mow their 2-acre lawn. You know the ones.
She was actually super sweet, although not too keen on our plans for livestock.
“Sheep are … quiet …”
Extra points, however, for a lady willing to walk all the way over to our house in the country to introduce herself, even if she did call the cops when her neighbor’s horses were browsing through her yard. As long as we plant some tall trees along our property line, I think they’ll tolerate us.
Speaking of extra points, Colleen Rankin and Talya Strader get fifteen each for stopping by on Friday night. It’s good to have familiar faces in our living room. Feels more like home that way. And seven points each to mom and dad for stopping by on Saturday. We love visitors, and that’s a promise. Come on over. Come on over, baby.
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