outside of the box

Our lives here in this old house have consisted of lots of going through and pitching onto the fire pile. The heirlooms are safe and either displayed in china cabinets that were passed on or packed in tissue paper for the next generation. Being the non-organized person that I am, it's been just lately that I've begun to make piles and sift through things. When you live in one place for fifty plus years, things tend to get helter skelter. Daddy and I did the remodel of my house, circa 1918, over a six month period after Mr. Council moved out but it took about fifteen more years to clean up his mess in the attic and basement, bless his heart. There were rabbit feed bags on every floor and little bits of history everywhere. Slowly but surely, they have been touched and archived. Except for the wood burning stove in the basement. It's way too heavy to move so I might as well load it up with wood. They say that heat rises.

The intent of my writing and photography from day one has been to patch together the stories in some form or fashion for a book about the history of this farm and my life. All of that is in boxes that include mounds of paper and one dead hard drive, thanks to a computer geek in upstate New York who cared enough to keep this old PC going back in the day. Thats where blogging became more than just what-poopie-ate, as Gilda would say.

As funerals go, Mr.Bruce's was a great one. No rain, not too hot and a nice breeze. There was a small but faithful crowd, and thankfully the message was not real preachy. Allen did a superb job of telling the history of Dick and Peg and their entire family. At the cemetery, two young marines flanked the flag draped casket as another played taps in the distance. The flag bearer kneeled before their only son and spoke on behalf of the president and our country, presenting him with the stars and stripes that his purple heart decorated dad defended at Iwo Jima as a 19 year old marine.

There are boxes of fabric, waiting to be cut into quilt pieces for Annie to work her magic. A ladder sit propped against the ancient window in the living room where there are two offices...one for me and the other for Conner. Mary Engelbreit's calenders remind me where to be and whose birthday is coming up. And God bless Butch...there is propane in the tank and he hasn't even given the first courtesy call for payment. Dude knows that when it gets cold, I'll pay him what I owe and then some.

Just another day in paradise ^j^