There comes a time in the lives of folks, mostly males, when thoughts of a simple, little place in the country fill the mind. These dreams of the idyllic, simple life are remarkably naïve but nonetheless compelling.
The man who dreads having to cut his quarter-acre of lawn will dream of rolling meadows. When confronted with his lack of gardening enthusiasm, he will mutter something about buying a tractor. The man who needs two assistants and two days to fix the kitchen faucet is the same man who wants to build a little cabin with his own two hands.
When such a dreamer gets the bit in his teeth and actually buys his “place in the country,” his troubles begin. Our friend did just that — met a little place, fell in love and before his wife could remove his checkbook, bought it. He was thrilled; she was shocked and the place was a mess!
Oh, it was picturesque if run down, overgrown and 10 miles from nowhere appeals to you. He saw the trees, the fields, the pond. She saw the tired, old house, sagging sadly on shaky piers. He said, “Don‘t worry. It’ll be beautiful when it’s fixed up.” What she replied is unprintable.
The old house was a warren of dark rooms, one opening into the other, none of which was a bathroom. The current inhabitants, bats, weren’t bothered by the lack of modern facilities, as the floor attested. In a terminal state of rot and neglect, the house needed large transfusions of money to save it.
It didn’t matter to our friend; he was in love. He wanted to save her no matter what the cost. Fortunately, he also loved his wife, and when told to choose between them, he chose his wife.
In early spring he goes to visit his little place in the country.
He looks at the fields, the trees and the pond. He doesn’t look at the house; it’s gone now. A goat brushed against it last winter, and it fell over dead.
Laura Moore can be emailed at lehmoore1@gmail.com.
