When I tell folks that I live on three acres out in the countryside in an old farm house surrounded by miles and miles of farmland, they get all starry-eyed and moon-faced. They are picturing Tara or the Ponderosa and not listening closely to what I said.
One, the miles and miles of farmland belong to our neighbor; we own three acres that form an odd puzzle piece in the bottom right hand of that expanse.
Two, when I say I live in an old farm house, it is exactly that, nothing more. I. Live. In. An. Old. Farm. House. Picture this: sturdy, rectangular box; partially rusted, metal roof; shingle-siding that was once blue and is now an indescribable color.
I pictured my Del Webb days in a city condo or in a cute little bedroom community garden home. Not this.
There are five buildings on this Garden of Eden and none of them match. Remember I am a city girl. When we buy a home, we go to Home Depot and buy the matching backyard shed. We coordinate our surroundings – the decking matches the house trim; the yard ornaments accent the flora.
On these three acres, there are two large metal shop buildings where my husband houses his lucrative, woodworking business, an unsightly bird loft where HoneyBunch raises pigeons (don’t ask), and two houses – ours and a rental that is presently unoccupied.
In a stretch the two metal buildings could sub for urban backyard sheds, and the bird loft (molting feathers and all) and an old truck that one of the kids abandoned on the premises could sub for yard ornaments, but only if EVERYTHING got a good coat of paint. Maybe two.
Why do I live here?
I moved here almost six years ago because it is what is inside that makes up for the lack of outdoor Feng Shui. He is 5’8”, smiles a lot, and calls me Goddess, and every time he walks inside to grab a cup of coffee and a kiss, I know I am home.