My husband trolled the interwebs and found that a house right across the street from our neighborhood was being sold by our real estate agent for a ridiculously low amount of money. He called said-real-estate agent, verified that the obscenely low price was, in fact, correct, and now we own 1.3 acres of woods, a 3 bedroom home, 300 feet of janky chain link fencing, a parked Bronco on blocks and a small log cabin with running water and electricity.
We also still own our townhouse, because the new place is still, frankly, unlivable to anyone NOT a survivor of a Zombie Apocalypse. For instance, while the small log shack (what we’ve been referring to lovingly as “My Brother‘s Visiting Cottage”) has running water, the 3 bedroom home, bafflingly, does not. Also, there are holes cut into each of the ancient windows (the kind that still run on pulleys with honest-to-god rope holding them up) so that a cable wire care sneak in wherever appropriate. There are two coal-optional fireplaces (built back in the era when “environmentally friendly” apparently meant, Let’s Burn Some Motherfucking Coal Indoors!) and one room upstairs was thoughtfully painted black (guess whose job it is to scrape off that hot mess?).
The yard was like a Salvador Dali painting. We spent two solid days just dismantling the damn chain link fence and trimming back plants and weeds that had organized into a fighting militia complete with thorns and poison sumac. Only my husband managed to get himself all sumac’ed, which he then treated with 20 Mule Team Borax, a product I couldn’t even believe was still manufactured sold and one which, frankly, should have been more virulent to his skin than the sumac.
The root cellar, initially sold to us as a “basement,” is a shoulder-high pit of despair and chaos that can only be accumulated by 5 generations of the same messy family living within close proximity to one another. There is a pit in the center of the cellar, dug perhaps as the one place you can stand up fully to examine the bizarre array of wires and duct work which we still cannot fully comprehend.
We are the only folks to live on this road who are not related thru cousinship or marriage to the nearest adjacent 6 homes. While everyone has been super kind and friendly, they also seem to have some kind of deep-rooted attachment to some poor deceased person called “Dale Earnhardt” judging from the many homages to him we’ve seen in yards and on mailboxes. Perhaps he was another relative of theirs? Our closest neighbors also like to cheerfully decorate their yard for each and every holiday, including Flag Day and Arbor Day. Each holiday cheer set comes complete with blow-up ornaments on the lawn and twinkle lights in colors befitting the occasion.
Seriously, ya’ll, we’re gonna be all Little House on the Motherfucking Prairie.