Last weekend we officially moved into our new home. Boxes were packed, and hauled, and delivered. I loved walking over the old creaking sounds of oak floorboards under my feet. The sunlight streaming in made the cardboard packing smell of a new family within its walls. I did a good job of only directing where I wanted things to go but lamented every moment I could just pick it up myself and get the job done. Good thing I have able bodied young men in the family.
The kitchen was the priority on Saturday morning. Followed with the clothing being removed from suitcases. But we were a bit more distracted than other moves by some clucking in the garden. I can't seem to get over the fact that I somehow skipped over the suburban dog or cat ownership and now have a flock of hens to accustom my mindset. Although I'm pretty sure the dog is as good as bought when I spy a good ad in the paper.
We chose this house the first time we laid eyes on it in October of last year. It went un-purchased till the date to which we could make it ours. It does sit on a two lane highway which probably was not a selling feature for anyone not needing the comfort of "city noise" to an un-bred farmer girl like myself. But as they say, "when in Rome...". So here we are, 90 seconds from the church and surrounded by blueberry fields and mountain views, along with burn piles in the back and a beebe gun range near the fence. Will I ever get to those boxes?