This Really Old House

Monday rolled around in a hurry. So did October.

The past three days have been a test, a test of my patience. I have limited patience.

I’ve cleaned and tidied, mopped and shopped. And the result is still a house that defies my efforts. Things are put away. They have a place. They reappear, not in their place. Oddly enough things never disappear.  I think the house is possessed.

Molly stands at the end of the hallway and whines and barks until someone calls for her to make the trip. Zach and I recently decided that Granny’s ghost is hanging out in the hall scaring the dog. I inherited the house from my mom. I sometimes think it was my punishment. It’s a money pit in addition to defying my efforts. Perhaps Mom is playing tricks on me.

We live in this house. We work in this house. We (I?) hoard our treasures, yarn and thread and supplies, and cute little frogs, in this house. And in the barn. And in the shed. Any number of projects is stacked and noted awaiting my attention.

The four dogs add their own special kind of disorganized.

The cat is a cat.


Crazy lives in this house. I’m married to him. Hehe.

Speaking of crazy and ghosts, Bob has a small urn of his brother’s ashes on the chest in our bedroom. When I dust, I always greet John. He’s kinda of quiet, rarely returns my greeting.

Then there are the barn cats. Their numbers have finally decreased to two. For years it seems, we routinely labored catching the feral little critters to have them spayed or neutered. I guess we finally stopped the kitten factory. We did lose some of the most precious soon after surgery. Damn cars.

So my patience is worn, the house has yet to settle into organized disorder (is that an oxymoron?), staunchly remaining chaotic. The projects are piling high.

I will never want for something to do.

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