It’s the final stretch now; just a few more days until the old farmhouse is gone.
We’ve been there every day, clearing out good wood and anything else worth saving. The more we’re in the house though, the more we’re happy with our decision to build new. This house would have been Ye Olde Money Pit for sure. Floor joists with sections inexplicably cut out; soft floors on all three levels; the pervasive smell of rodent; missing load-bearing walls; myriad other things I’ve talked about before.
I especially felt that way when my left leg went through the rotten floor of the back porch while Jasper and I were carrying out a water heater. Precariously balanced with half my body through the floor, praying the rest of it didn’t give way, I realized I am at peace with the approaching burn.
Guilty generational regrets be damned.
I originally envisioned having a kind of party on Saturday, up in the fields, and having friends and family over to toast the end of the old farmhouse. An almost 3,000 square foot home is not something you ordinarily get (or want) to see burn down to ashes. The weather report is, of course, calling for rain though, so I don’t know how that’s going to turn out.
I do know, however, that I’m not going to let the girls watch. The truth is that fires are scary, and house fires (even the planned-for kind) can be downright terrifying. Avery, my oldest daughter, is already anxietal about almost everything, and Iris is only four. I think it’s probably better to keep the idea of a house fire as more of an abstract thing than for them to witness just how quickly four wooden walls can be reduced to nothing.
I’m not going to bring the dogs, either. Juniper has a heart of gold, but not much in the brains department. She’d be, quite literally, toast.