home sweet home
I can finally say, with some degree of certainty, that Shanna and I are home. Half of our stuff is still in boxes, and the "need to do" list is miles longer than the "accomplished" list; but we've been staying here for nearly two weeks now, and it has become quite comfortable.
The olive-green, cat-piss stained carpeting has been replaced by a lovely oak hard-wood floor. The horrible wallpaper in the master bed is now a calming shade of sage khaki, offset by white trim, white window sheers, and linen curtains. The white on white living room is now a wonderful shade of cabernet on the long walls, white on the short, and furnished; if not fully decorated yet. The metallic wallpapered dining room is now a medium purple-gray, which looks wonderfull with the golden hues of the wood floor. Yes, we still have more stuff packed in boxes than unpacked yet, but we are closer by the day. We have internet, and I've done a half-dozen loads of laundry in the house (this is new and wonderful to me, no more shall I go to a laundromat!)
Our neighbors are old hippy activists, who can count Abby Hoffman, Ed Alby, Ken Kesey, Arlo Guthrie, and many others as friends. They have written for High Times, they have been raided by the FBI more than once for organizing protests; they are militant supporters of the Bill of Rights, and nationlly-known educators and lecturers on the industrial, medical, social, and culinary uses of Marijuana.
The former owner of our home passed away at 88, she was a former Rockette, who had danced with Fred Astaire. She was deeply spiritual, prayed constantly, yet had books about and could talk candidly about nearly any religion in the world. She was the kind of lady who would get dressed to the nines to go grocery shopping, and even started smoking pot in her later years.
The olive-green, cat-piss stained carpeting has been replaced by a lovely oak hard-wood floor. The horrible wallpaper in the master bed is now a calming shade of sage khaki, offset by white trim, white window sheers, and linen curtains. The white on white living room is now a wonderful shade of cabernet on the long walls, white on the short, and furnished; if not fully decorated yet. The metallic wallpapered dining room is now a medium purple-gray, which looks wonderfull with the golden hues of the wood floor. Yes, we still have more stuff packed in boxes than unpacked yet, but we are closer by the day. We have internet, and I've done a half-dozen loads of laundry in the house (this is new and wonderful to me, no more shall I go to a laundromat!)
Our neighbors are old hippy activists, who can count Abby Hoffman, Ed Alby, Ken Kesey, Arlo Guthrie, and many others as friends. They have written for High Times, they have been raided by the FBI more than once for organizing protests; they are militant supporters of the Bill of Rights, and nationlly-known educators and lecturers on the industrial, medical, social, and culinary uses of Marijuana.
The former owner of our home passed away at 88, she was a former Rockette, who had danced with Fred Astaire. She was deeply spiritual, prayed constantly, yet had books about and could talk candidly about nearly any religion in the world. She was the kind of lady who would get dressed to the nines to go grocery shopping, and even started smoking pot in her later years.