I have all the time in the world. Time is running out. I am not sure which statement is true for me. Of course, none of us knows how much time we really have, I learned that when my husband died five years ago, but for the most part when you are younger, the world opens up before you full of opportunity. Time is endless.
This summer I apply for Medicare. That thought stopped me in my tracks as I was looking at a hens nest in Monroe, Georgia, at a favorite antique shop. A perfect addition for the cottage in my mind. My cottage, with a few acres for my animals and farm fantasy. See, my acreage is growing. Now I use the words a few acres, when a post or two ago, I required only an acre of land with my cottage. I bought the hen's nest for my yard in Decatur, but in my mind, I had it hanging on a shed on my cottage farm, away from my dogs, and full of chickens.
Sixty-five. That is not old, but is it too old to have the fantasy I can do everything I think about? Could I live on a few acres by myself? At my age? Do I want to? Or is my fantasy life because I am searching for something else, and I don't know what it is yet. The cottage in my mind is a good escape from other realities I don't want to face.
It is also not a new fantasy. I've had a house fantasy since I was young.
At one time I rented three storage units full of old painted cottage furniture, five complete bedroom sets, painted in the late 1800's with flowers, and other scenes. I was single then, divorced. I had not yet met the man of my dreams. I had my dream I would open a bed and breakfast. My furniture stash showed I was sincere with my thoughts. My antique dealer friends loved my craziness. I kept buying and storing furniture that traveled from Ohio, New York, and Pennsylvania to Decatur, Georgia, for my passion, my dream I would need it all at some point. I spent money like I had it. You don't put a price on a dream. I had all the time to make it real.
Then I met a man. My life changed. I still bought furniture, until I realized there was no more room in my storage units, and I could buy a car with the cost of three storage units, climate control units. My furniture may have originated in the late 1800's and outlived anything I knew, but I wanted it kept free of mildew, rats, and any other natural disasters that could befall a cottage chest in a damp, dusty climate. So I paid more for climate control. At least I was cool when I went to check on my treasures.
My true love had no desire for a bed and breakfast, quite the contrary. He was a mid-century man. My plans changed to go with my life change when I moved in with him. I became an antique dealer, rather than a hostess at my own establishment.
The late 1940's ranch house became another type of storage unit. I brought furniture, paintings, fabrics, and lovely cottage antiques, into my house to wait for the next big show. My house was in shambles. Twenty-five years of mid-century surrounded by old painted furniture stacked three deep. I dreamed still of my cottage, my farm, my bed and breakfast.
I never dreamed my husband would die at age sixty.
My hours, days, and nights were filled with finding a new life. Mid-century left my house, and my old painted pieces moved in. I decorated. I wrote. I self-published a book on my first year as a widow. I opened and closed a small shop.
I never stopped looking at homes. Married I always picked up the latest 'Homes and Land' magazine everywhere I went. Now a widow, single, I called agents.
I looked at houses in Lilburn, Georgia, where my shop was. I found one I loved and grieved when someone else bought it. The same when I moved my shop to Lawrenceville for all of five months. A small house on two acres close to my shop fascinated me. Pine walls and high ceilings. I wanted to move there. But it was on a main street and I worried about traffic and my dogs.
When my shop closed and I moved to antique malls in Monroe, Georgia, the little town caught my heart. Should I move there? If you've read my earlier posts, you've followed my house insanity.
I haven't moved any where. I am still where I've been for thirty years.
Now I will turn sixty-five. I will have a Medicare card. I've avoided AARP for years, but I can't escape Medicare.
Does that make me too old to be on my own on a farm?
My dream won't stop. The latest issue of Country Living magazine features a change of life to a farm. At first I thought it was a single gal, then read she was married. Is it easier to move to a farm with a mate? As a single female, who is getting older, are my options limited?
I don't see myself as old. Most folks don't either (or if they do, they are kind and don't mention it when I speak my folly!)
Time. Only time will tell where I land. I want to land on the dirt, on my feet, and not six-feet under it. In August, when my Medicare card becomes a reality, you will still find me up on realtor.com, chasing my dreams with the vigor of one much younger, and the wisdom of a gal who has learned how to keep dreams alive.
You will also find me drinking a Margarita and celebrating that life is good no matter where I live!
