My daughter and wife have asked me some really good questions over the last several months of why we still want to be so committed to this house, this airport and this property.
I can give them the simple answer: “Because I will die in hell before I ever move those books again.”
(Although, for the record, this is a perfectly good response, IMHO. Not the complete response, but to hell with moving. I bought this house and paid it off knowing I’d never really move again.)
A better answer is that I like it. I grew up in it and I like it. I like the airport. I like the open space. I like the fact that if I leave my neighbors alone hey leave me alone.
But mostly, I like this old house like I like my old car. It’s got screwy stuff, but you tinker and fiddle to make it work.
And I like the airplanes!
The cherry on top is knowing the history of the place. I mean the meta place…I can point to where the chicken coops were when it was a farm.
I’m going to be an ¬†old fogie that will probably die here. It’s my estate. It’s not much, but it’s my Tara. I own it completely in more ways than by title. I own it because I care about it. Totally and completely. I’m not Scarlett, but I can defend it against dandelions, skunks and fireworks.

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