Finally

Today’s thoughts are jumbled, like my life currently is. 

Hank is not having fun.

We were awarded our CO (certificate of occupancy) Tuesday morning and . . . words fail. My feelings are combined elation and exhaustion and relief. 

We began work on our “forever” (presumably—IYKYK) house almost two years ago by clearing land and digging a big hole. I posted a photo on Instagram and captioned it “Welcome to my home!”

It was so exciting!

It took literal months to find someone to pour the basement floor and do the block walls.

Then finally in March 2022—a full six months later—our crew of mostly volunteer framers came and when I brought lunch that day I couldn’t speak for the crying. It was finally happening. 

Since then, every single thing has been a struggle, whether it was trying to find someone to do what we wanted to sub out, or doing it ourselves wrong the first time and then fixing our mistakes. 

The struggle has been epic, and the longer it’s gone on, the slower we’ve moved. I’m not going to say it’s because we’re both over 60, but it’s because we’re both over 60. 

We are SICK. TO. DEATH. of building a house. Highly do not recommend. 

And yet . . . we will be moving in today. 

The claw foot tub is not hooked up to either a drain or water. There are no shelves in the pantry. The interior paint is a mess from all the construction and the exterior is only partially painted. Screens are still in a box in the barn, although the windows are wide open to dissipate the fumes from the oil-based polyurethane Ben is putting on the wood floors, may it please be dry in 12 hours. The house is completely surrounded by red mud with three—maybe four—blades of grass. The cabinets in the laundry room have no countertop. We are still catching mice in the basement. I’m sure there’s more I can’t think of. 

But the first day I wake up there I’m going to make my coffee (if I can find the coffee maker) and go sit on the front porch in the silence of the middle of nowhere. It will be pure bliss. Paradise with cows.

Speaking of coffee pots, this morning I popped a half-caff pod (because I am lame like that) in the Keurig and pressed the button like I do every day. It made the familiar noise of sucking water from the reservoir into the machine, and then . . . nothing. 

I waited a minute, then pulled the handle up and pushed it back down. Nothing. Raised the handle again, turned the machine off, turned it back on, pressed the button again. Nothing. There is no more sinking feeling at 6:30 am when you know you’re going to be packing your whole life in boxes that day. 

I slumped my shoulders and retreated to my basement to read my Bible caffeineless. 

Then I heard Ben come out of his office and get ready to go to the farm so I ran upstairs for a little sympathy before he left. 

I said sadly, “My keurig died.” I silently wondered what would become of my first morning in the new house. It somehow seemed a fitting end to the monumental struggle of house-building. 

Ben looked truly alarmed and turned to face the purveyor of such morning woe. 

He did all the things I’d already tried and still no coffee came forth. He gave it his famous death stare, demanding of it how it dared to defy him, the fixer of all machines. 

Finally, he gave it a hard smack right on the top and—I am not even kidding—coffee began pouring into the cup! He looked as surprised as I was and laughed, “That was supposed to be a joke!”

Joke or not, the Keurig works again, so I’m happy and looking forward to Saturday morning on the porch, enjoying my pasture and the big pile of red dirt.