Simply Said "I Must Have A Picket Fence!"

I'd like to invite you for tea but I think we both know it's Margaritaville!

     Ranch house. Picket fence. Are the two compatible? As hard as I searched online I could not find my style ranch house surrounded by a picket fence. My late forties ranch with its large sweeping front yard, wrought iron rails and original metal awnings, screamed out “do not fence me in!” At least, not with a picket fence.

     There once was a split rail western fence across the front yard by the street that had fallen in decay. OK, I also knocked into the fence one rainy night going out to meet a bad date. I whacked it with the rear of my car and it tumbled to the ground. An omen I took to heart that my date was not going to work out. While I never saw my date again, I got to look out my front window at the fence remains for a few years.

     The problem with my yard and a sweet picket fence is the size of the yard. The land is not all mine, but part of a right-of-way that I maintain. Those charming fences I loved would make my house look ridiculous. Like when I shrunk my already tight jeans and went out to dinner with my jeans about three inches above my ankle. Laughable, but not funny. I didn't realize how silly I looked til I caught sight of myself  in the full length mirrored doors as I entered the restaurant. Proportion counts. In jeans and in fences.

     “I want a picket fence!” Simply said. But not quietly so.

     My handyman and I went through pictures I'd printed out.

     “I like that railed fence. You could do that.” He tried to be helpful.

     It was lovely. I actually saw one like it on a farm I passed as I went antiquing the week before. White. Charming. But I was not looking to buy the farm, I wanted the cottage in my mind.

     “Nope. Picket fence.”

     Driving an intown neighborhood a few days later a different kind of picket fence caught my eye. Three trips around the block I positioned myself to take a photo. Never mind the few cars behind me honking as I came to a complete stop at rush hour. I got the photo. I also found my fence-style.

     “This!” I flashed my cell at my handyman. “What do you think?”

     “That will work!”

      And yes it did.

      Two inch pickets, forty-eight inches high, with four inches between the pickets, gave the openness and height that was needed to frame my yard. Simple, elegant, timeless, and charming.

     A trip to the lumber yard provided the supplies. Two hundred and forty pickets, two inch rails, and posts totaled over $740.

    Visa don't fail me now. I pulled out my worn credit card and handed it to the cashier. For just a second my heart raced. I had not put a cost to the fence.

    “Here is your receipt. Take it to the window in the first room and the guys will load your lumber.”

     Work started that afternoon and a few days later my fence was in. Most of it. The far corner on the other side of the drive goes in the end of this week. Towards the creek and right-of-way the only remaining portion of the old split rail fence still stands. You can barely see it. It has not rotted. I left it to show where the original fence boundaries were. It also reminds me of an earlier time in my house, when a man I loved would have cringed at the thought of a picket fence. It is part of my roots after all.

      I am dreaming flowers and garden statues. I love my picket fence! Come on over. I'll have a pitcher of Margaritas waiting!



Poor pitiful split rail fence!

So that is what a fence looks like fresh from the lumber yard.

And so it begins....

Looking mighty fine!

Finished, complete with solar caps on the side going up the driveway. Perhaps I'll see better at night when I back out!

Needs some flowers!

A long stretch of pickets!

Details. See how the pickets angle to one side at top.



  

    

A Bee In My Bonnet

    

Photo from the web.

    “Watch out!” I screamed at my handyman as the bees buzzed overhead. I have a morbid fear of being stung and I didn't want him to get zapped while working on my new picket fence.

     “I see them.” He swatted at the air above his head with his old cap. “Geez. I hate bees!”

     Nobody was stung, thank goodness. But I had a problem to address. While the fence in front of my house was near completion, the side corner that frames the driveway was buzzing with bees.

      We stood there looking at the area he had to work on next.

     “What do you think?” I looked at him, concerned, but somewhat disgusted there was a problem to solve.

     “Don't know. I guess I could dig out the old fence, like I did on this side." He turned back to where he had all but completed my picket fence. "But there weren't bees there. Bees and I don't get along.”

     The remains of the old split rail fence were covered with plants and shrubs. It had once been a flower bed, but years of neglect turned it into a jungle. I wanted flowers again, framed by my new fence. The only thing I planned to save was the sweet pink rose that managed to thrive over the years.

     “Wonder what kind of bees they are?” I thought about all my old Victorian paintings with their honeybees flying over roses and lilacs in baskets.
      I watched as the bees seemed to play in the air and soar above our heads, only to disappear back into the thick shrubs. They hardly noticed us.

     “I'll bet they are honeybees.”
      I called the county extension services and was put in touch with their master gardener.

     “Not time for honeybees, nor yellow jackets. You say there is a wood fence there? Probably carpenter bees. April is the month you start seeing them.”

     “Do you know someone I can call to get rid of them?"
     “You can buy spray to kill them. But that could also annoy them. They really aren't aggressive, unless provoked. Do you have a tennis racket? Try to chase them away with that.”

      Her remark brought back a flood of memories!  My husband used to keep his old tennis racket by the kitchen door. He'd take it outside to deal with the carpenter bees when he saw them at the back of the house. I tossed it away a few months ago in a house cleaning frenzy. My timing was off on that one. But I didn't really picture my handyman or myself down by the fence swinging a racket."

     “Do you have someone I could call.” I repeated myself.

     She gave me the name of a guy, a beekeeper, who might help. “Tell him you know you can spray, but wanted his help to do it. Most likely he'll say no.”

     Not to be discouraged I called him.

     “Don't want to take your money for something you can do yourself.” I had a good old country boy on the phone.
     “I'm pretty sure they are carpenter bees, and I know I can spray, but I'm scared. And so is my handyman.”
     “If he is a handyman, he's not afraid of bees. Ask him. Never met a handyman who couldn't handle a few carpenter bees, unless they are wasps or something else. But with that fence there, they most likely are carpenter bees. Can't take your money for that.”

     Please take my money, I silently pleaded.

     “I'd feel better if you could come and take a look. I'll pay for your time.”
     “If you're that worried, I'll  come in the morning. Want to be sure you know what you're talking about. Wouldn't want you to hit a wasp nest. But most likely them carpenter bees. Can't take your money for that.”

     It rained liked the heavens opened up that night. By morning it was bright again. My handyman showed up, but the bees did not.

     An old pickup truck pulled up into the driveway just as I was assessing the bee situation. A man in his late forties jumped out and walked over to introduce himself.

     “Do you think the rain chased them away?” I looked again at the quiet bushes and worried they were gone for now, but would be back, and my beekeeper would be gone.

     Then a bee flew out of the bushes and circled us.

    “Yep. You got carpenter bees.” He bent over and pulled back some limbs to see the split rail fence. “You can see the holes.” He thumped on the fence and more bees appeared. “Won't hurt you. Unless of course you bother them.”

     Wasn't that what he just did thumping on the fence? But the bees just flew about. One brushed against my hand and took back off. They did not appear to be concerned with us like I was with them.
     “Your handyman ain't afraid of those carpenter bees.”

     “Yeah, I think he is. Let's ask.”

      I called him over. He eyed the bees circling.
    “Think you can handle this?” I looked at my handyman. Someone had to get that fence out of there so we could cut down the shrubs and get my picket fence in. "He says you can work around the bees."

     “I hate bees.” He gave me a crooked smile and went back to the other side of the drive.

     “Something wrong with him?” The beekeeper shook his head. “Never met a...”

     “Can you help?” I cut him off mid sentence.

     “I'll pull that old fence out if you like.”

     Before I could answer he jerked out the two posts and the two rails and tossed them by the trash can. Then he bent over and grabbed the longer rail and held it out to me.
    “Yep. Look at them holes.” He took a stick and poked in one of them. “Got that bee.”

The holes could not have been more precise if they had been drilled.

    “Wow. That's amazing. Are there more bees in there?”

     My fear was gone. This was pretty awesome.

     He held the rail close to his ear then handed it to me.
    “Listen.”

    The rail buzzed with activity. I wondered how many bees were still in there.

    “They'll be out when it warms up a bit.” He dropped the rail back by the trash.
     I was thrilled. The fence was out. I could trim back the shrubs myself now.
    “Can I pay you for your time?” He didn't have to drive far from his house to mine, but I did cut into his morning.

    “A few bucks for gas would be fine. Can't take your money for anything else.”

    After he left my handyman and I made a quick run to Home Depot for caps for the fence posts. We stopped for burgers and drove home to eat in the driveway.

    “I can see bees down there.” He was looking in his rear view mirror.

    Just at that moment, the garbage men pulled up in their huge truck. They loaded my trash and started to leave.

     “Did they take the fence rails?” I didn't want to turn around and look.

      “No....wait, they just backed up."

     “Are they taking it?” I couldn't believe my good fortune.

      I did a quick spin in my seat to see them load the fence remains, bees and all, into the back of the truck and drive off.

     “I can't believe that. It's all gone!” Then we both started to laugh so hard I almost snorted up my diet coke.

     Scratch one bee in my bonnet! I spent the next hour cutting back the overgrowth, except for my lovely old rose bush.

     The rest of my fence goes in next week.

     Bee in hole. Photo from the web.

Perfectly round hole by carpenter bee. Photo from the web.

Overgrown corner with old split rail fence - home of the caprenter bees.

My afternoon work. Fence gone, area almost cleared.

Info about carpenter bees. Link here.  

Carpenter bees are large, black and yellow insects about 1 inch (25 mm) long. They closely resemble bumble bees. The thorax is covered with yellowish hairs, and the abdomen is a shiny black color and hairless. Male carpenter bees are territorial; in the spring they are often found guarding potential nest sites. They discourage intruders by hovering or darting at anything venturing into the nesting areas. The female carpenter bee, like many other bees, can sting, but it is uncommon for her to do so; the males do not sting.

Bogart, Georgia Farmhouse

Sunshine In My Window

     

Sun on my floors, a welcome sight!

     Today I will just enjoy my house, my yard and the world outside my front door. The final work on my bathroom, if you can call it that – decorating – can wait until tomorrow. There is reason to celebrate this Saturday... the sun is out! It looks and feels like spring. It is about time.

     The bleak weather has carried on too long. My dogs are restless. I am stir crazy. The basement leaked again from the rain the other night. My handyman is waiting for a few days of sunshine to dig out around the foundation and fix the problem. Tomorrow...as Scarlett would say. Today I am all about fun!

     I love the sun. I am at my best when it shines. It fills me with excitement, hope, energy, and possibilities. I am a Leo, ruled by the sun, so I am almost giddy in its presence.

    This morning the sun blinds me as I sit at the computer! Its rays pick up every bit of dust and dog dander on my floor. I don't care. And I am certainly not going to clean today! Soon I will be outdoors doing whatever sparks my imagination.

     The dogs had a huge romp in the yard and now do what they do best, sleep! All six are out cold, spread across the room on chairs and the sofa. Rascal takes full advantage of the sun's rays. Her head is aglow with light and her tiny paws sparkle. Her head begs to be kissed, but I don't want to wake her.

Sweet Rascal loves the sun too!

     The cottage in my mind has huge windows that draw in every bit of light from Mother Nature. My own ranch house is full of sun. I couldn't live in a house that was dark, no matter how charming it was in other ways. The bones are great in my ranch, it is missing those things I dream about in a much older cottage, but the basics are there and I can create my own little charming space.

     I came across a quote by the artist Edward Hopper that sums up my feelings about sunshine.

What I wanted to do was paint sunlight on the side of the house...Edward Hopper

(1882-1967, realist painter of twentieth-century America)

    

Seven A. M., 1948

High Noon

Cape Cod Afternoon, 1936

Light House

     I want to paint sunshine in every room of my house! The cozy cottage paint I used in the bathroom allows the room to explode with the light from outdoors. Maybe that is the shade for the rest of my rooms. Time will tell.

Enjoy your day! Back to work tomorrow as I share the final bathroom photos.

Links for Edward Hopper articles.

The Wall Street Journal

WiKiPaintings

Edward Hopper

A Paint Called "Cozy Cottage"

        

     Who falls in love with the name of a paint color? Well, I did. I knew I wanted an off white paint for my bath re-do, and worried how I would find the perfect shade? Yes, there is more to white paint than meets the eye. In my case, the actual color was not the deciding factor, the paint name stole my heart. When it comes to decorating I am ruled by romance rather than reason.

     My handyman and I were in Home Depot to pick up my bathroom fixtures and paint for the walls. What I thought would take hours, and much teeth gnashing,  was done in a matter of minutes. It took longer to get the items on our cart, than for me to decide what I wanted.

     Our first stop was the bathroom section. Like a kid in a candy store with no adult supervision, I ogled the pedestal sinks for a moment and picked my flavor. One sink, and only one sink, stood out. It was the largest one they had. Tall, with a huge basin, and a rimmed backsplash. Very old fashioned looking, it was so large, it became my tiny bathroom's focal point. It had style and presence. The backsplash would also cover the two holes in the tile where the old oak sink cabinet my husband built, twenty-eight plus years ago, had been drilled in to the wall.

     “The toilet has to be high like the one I've got now.” I smiled at my handyman. It took a few moments longer than my sink decision to pick out a toilet. 'Chair Height' caught my eye. “Is this about the size of the one at home?” I knew I didn't want a low sitting toilet, or one with an elongated bowl, just a simple white toilet to tuck next to my glorious sink. He took the measurements and pulled a big box off the rack.

     I had my Home Depot charge and I charged forward like a maniac. I've never picked out my own bathroom fixtures. For years I've lived with the manly bathroom my husband installed when we first moved into the house. The bathroom was so small, he custom built the sink cabinet, wall shelf, and medicine cabinet to fit the space. Back in those days I liked oak, so I was happy with how the bathroom looked when it was completed. The old tan and black tile stayed, and glass shower doors were put up. It was more a man's bath, and not the cottage style I now so wanted.

     I've disliked my bathroom so much the last few years, I hated to clean it. Between the yellowing paint, dust, a bit of mildew, and Talcum powder everywhere, the bath was a mess. No matter what I did, a thin film of powder stayed on the shelf, in the old caulking around the tub, and sprinkled on the floor, turning my black rug, with its cabbage rose pattern, grey. I questioned how so much powder could go into the air, when so little went onto my body.

     The old grout around my tub/shower was also disgusting. Tiny specks had worn away and grime filled the crevices.  My old bathroom was the biggest eyesore in my house. I'd had several occasions of sheer embarrassment when someone asked to use it, but company was rare, and I rarely cleaned.

     Now it was about to transform into the girly bathroom I'd always wanted.

     While I picked out my light fixture, my handyman went to get other supplies I had no interest in.

    “I'll meet you in paints!” I waved him off and gleefully looked at chrome fixtures with milk glass shades. My final choice was in a Martha Stewart box.

     We caught up in the paint department.

    “I think that is enamel on the walls. Do we have to prime the room first?” My thoughts went back to the primer that was used throughout the house the last time paint hit the walls. It stunk up the place for hours.

While I was not the one doing the work, I wanted it done quickly, and without a lot of disruption to the household and dogs. It is hard to keep six dogs calm with all the excitement of renovation going on. I would find out later I had to move the dogs from room to room, to let my handyman in and out of the house, and into the work areas.

     We asked the guy behind the counter. The paint he recommended was BEHR Premium Plus, they mix a primer in with the tint. One coat would do the job.     

     “Look at the charts and samples on the rack.” He pointed behind us.

     I grabbed a few cards from the section with varying shades of white and turned back to my handyman.  I liked the off white, with a hint of taupe. I liked several shades, in fact. But my decision was made based on the name of a color that said it all.
      “This one!” I giggled, like a silly school girl. "Cozy Cottage. I love it!”

        We headed back home and by the end of the day my sink and toilet were installed. I had not realized how dark the oak had made the room. Now it was bright, lively. For a moment I worried all that light might show my wrinkles, but I was smiling with excitement. I tossed that thought, with the rest of the debris on the floor, into the trash and out the door.

      The antique window purchased from a friend, with its large mirror insert, would replace the medicine cabinet and add more of the old vintage style I'd hoped for. There was plenty of storage in the narrow closet next to the sink.
      My dream started to take shape. I could hardly wait for the next installment. The cottage in my mind would be a cozy cottage indeed!

Getting ready to remove the old sink and built in cabinet.

Remains of the old toilet.

Medicine cabinet...gone!

Shopping at Home Depot.

My new sink and toilet.

Antique window with mirror to replace medicine cabinet.

If Not A New 'Old' Cottage, Then A New Plan Of Action

    

The front of my house.

     “You're out of your mind!”

     How many times have I heard this? I thought that particular fact had already been established about me. I am out of my mind. I function well in that location. A trip back to reality is not nearly as fun. However, I am juggling mega doses of reality this week, dashed with a bit of fantasy, to make it all palatable.

     The comment above came from a well meaning friend when I gave her the latest details of my business arrangement with my new handyman and how I plan to pay for his work.
     Since I can't move to a cottage, as the universe has pointed out to me recently, I am dancing as fast as I can to see if I can sprinkle my old ranch house with more charm. My attitude adjustment the past few days is one of appreciation. Appreciate where I am, because I am in a wonderful location. Then see if I can spruce up the old place to love it as much as I think I will love another. I am so fickle with houses. I wonder if there is a house that will keep me true or will I always be cursed with being so restless?

     Once I decided to work on my own house, I realized I'd need more than a bit of fairy dust to get things in motion. My finances had been severely tapped with my year and a half as a shop owner. But the answer to finding cash was under my nose, sitting in the driveway. My vintage Corvette was the catalyst to make things happen. It has been pretty much parked under its California Car Cover since I bought it in 2008. The car that took me over the hump of turning sixty, three months after earning my widow crown, had served me well back then, and would bail me out now.

     I'd put as many new batteries in the Corvette as I had tanks of gas. Three. You can't let a car like that sit, which is exactly what I did. I needed my van to haul things, and the Corvette's only track history, was the opening chapter in my book on my first year alone. It was time for this grand car to have a responsible owner who would love it. We'd had our fling.

     In addition to my big dream of sprucing up my ranch house, I had a reoccurring nightmare. The old leak in my basement was back. With a vengeance. I'd ignored it too long. Now I had to face up to dealing with it before it grew into a mildew problem.

     The basement leak was getting worse with each downpour. The area had grown from a small puddle to a huge sweeping mass that came two feet out from the wall and curved around the room. A professional company, that would guarantee their work for life, wanted $10,000 to do the job. I tried not to cry. Their 'lifetime guarantee' seemed like a life sentence to me.

     I decided there must be a better, more creative, and cheaper way, to take care of the leak. I wanted more bang for my buck. I had a bucket list of things I wanted done in the house. A plan of action started to form.

     The key to all my woes and expectations could be summed up in one word. Handyman. I just needed to find a good one. There are no males in my life at the moment; no friends' husbands, no male friends, no boyfriend, and not even a bad date on the horizon who might have a hidden talent. I was on my own.

     Handymen hang out at hardware stores. It seemed a reasonable thought. I trotted down the street to the local hardware store and spilled my guts about the problems at my house.

     “We keep a book of business cards.” The gal at the register reached under the counter and pulled up a thick, worn, spiral notebook. “See if there is anyone in here. Feel free to take as many cards as you like.”

     The book landed with a thud. Within minutes I had a card in my hand. The slogan on it caught my eye and the range of work covered everything I needed.

     “Do you know him?”

     “No. But most of these cards belong to the guys who buy supplies here.”

      I didn't wait to get home. My cell was out by the time I opened my van door, and I was talking to a young man by the time my butt hit the van seat.

     “I do work for the owner there at the hardware store, and rent from a family member of his.”

     There were the credentials I like. A personal connection. Not with me, but with the shop. I could track him down if he did me wrong.

     An appointment to look at the leak in the basement was scheduled for the next day. The universe had sent me the perfect handyman, I knew it. I stopped with that call, and started on my list.

Basement leak

Foyer floor replaced

Bathroom redo

New light fixtures

Picket Fence

Curb appeal for front of house

     It was just the beginning. Desperate times called for desperate measures. I had to stop the leak and I had to stop looking at houses online. My house needed a facelift if I was going to be content. From my files on my computer I printed out all the photos of houses, fences, and rooms I loved best. So many darling cottages, all in rainbow colors. My house would never look like those cottages, no matter what I did. It was a brick ranch. A moment of doubt started to creep back in.

     STOP! I yelled at myself. Attitude adjustment. You will love your ranch house, you will love your ranch house...repeat after me...

     My handyman showed up the next day, exactly as scheduled. He was young, early twenties, and, frankly, quite adorable. His experience started as a kid, working with his family's construction business. He'd moved here to be close to his girlfriend who in college on a scholarship. There was a nice, easy going, competent way about him. I figured we could work well together.

     After he looked at the foundation and took measurements, we headed back towards his truck.

     “What year is that Corvette?” He pointed to the tarped vehicle in my driveway.

     “'79 Stingray.” I felt that flush of excitement come back talking about my muscle car. The car always has that effect on me.

     “Man. I've always wanted one. Can I look?”

     I watched him remove the car cover and a thought took shape in my mind. Dare I say it outloud?

     “It's a beauty!” His hands ran over the car with such intensity I decided to speak up with my crazy thought.

     “Gonna sell her to pay for the work on my house. I have a long list of things I'd like done here, other than the leak. Maybe we could work out a trade...”  I paused and caught my breath.
     The car had saved my life when I thought my life ended with the death of my husband. It kick started the new me. Maybe it could do the same for a tired old ranch house.

     “You're joking, aren't you?” He looked at me in disbelief.

     “Nope!” I smiled and saw his face light up. If the car was going to go, I'd like for it to go where it would be appreciated. If I didn't have to deal with a bunch of buyers kicking tires, I'd be thrilled. Cliche as it sounded, this would be a win-win.

     “What price are you talking here...and I'll give you my lowest hourly charge...” He had a huge grin.

      “Let me get my work list, you take a closer look at the car, and we'll pull a plan together.”

      The universe has wrapped its arms around me again. I can't wait to see how all this goes. Am I falling in love with my ranch house all over? Or am I smitten with change in the air. Perhaps it is not that I want a cottage to move to, but the need to move more in my own life. I’ve been much to sedentary this year. The wind is now sweet with expectations as I wait to see what comes next. I am in the reality I love best, creating and dreaming.

      Yes, I am out of my mind. It is my favorite place to be.

Time On My Hands

    

      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!

photo from the web