The return of the key
This morning, my house key was returned. That marks the completion of our long project, downstairs, although such projects are never really complete, are they? But for the record, my afternoons of relative silence will return. No more saw sounds. No more power nailer sound. No more holding the doors while materials move from the loading dock to the worksite (my best way of explaining that the garage served to allow oversize materials to come in).
In celebration, I have remounted the bed in the bedroom and sent a signal to son #3, letting him know that we would like him to come home.
Along the way, I’ve learned that going from poorly hung gyproc to a completed storey of a house is long, when you do it on an irregular basis. No wonder we opted for the “factory built” version of the place. And now comes the real challenge, as we attempt to unpack several closets of material, turning the new space into something productive. Stand by!
I came across an intriguing newspaper article, this evening. A tale of a murder by mistake. Back before I was born, courtship wasn’t always a meeting of the minds. And when one of the pair (never actually a couple) felt that things had gone off the rails, a sawed off .22 rifle was used to fire one (or two) shots through the kitchen window. Unfortunately, the path of the bullet intersected with the head of a member of the home. The trial was long, and the testimony very folksy (the police didn’t know exactly how many fences lay between house #1 and house #2). And several months later, the story just disappeared from the pages of the newspaper. That’s how mysteries are spawned.
