The Living Without Series

This is a series of posts that I wrote back in 2006 on living with less stuff. Check them out: liv011Living #2liv031liv04

Coal Creek Farm on Facebook

The Chicken Doctor


The Architect



It’s 5:00 in the morning and I’m sitting here wondering if anyone is going to come to our, I mean MOVING SALE!!!  I have spent way more time and energy than I care to admit getting ready for it and all I have to show for it is a driveway full of cra…er, I mean amazing stuff that deserves a better home than the big-long-dark-brown tur….er I mean Baby Ruth.

Oh, here’s a good story for you;
The other day a very nice woman came to the house to look at some furniture we’re selling.  She had her 13 and 9 year old daughters with her.  I led her through the long house winding in and out of the halls and corridors and she commented, “Wow, this house just keeps going and going.”  That’s when I should have just said, “hmmmmm” while striking my best Vanna pose to display the bookcase we are selling.  But no.  Instead, I blurted out, in my great hick way, “Yeah, I know!  We like to call it the big-long-dark-brown-(I paused for a brief millisecond wondering if I should say turd or Baby Ruth, but of course I said) TURD!”.  That’s when the woman gasped and with eyes wider than a deer caught in the headlights of a Mac Truck she whipped her hands over her 9 year old daughter’s ears.  The damage was already done, the poor little girl’s ears are now soiled with the filthy word, turd.  Turd.  The word TURD.
I spent the rest of that day wondering if turd is a bad word.  I put it in the same category as poop, dooky, stinky and potty.  Maybe I need to elevate it to the next level on my content advisory.  It doesn’t belong with my Bible cuss words that I’m allowed to say because they’re in the Bible like; ass, damn, hell and bastard.  So, where does turd belong?  Oh, I’ve got so many answers to that question…but let’s not go there.  See?  I do censor myself fairly well.  But, I’m obviously still a potty mouth.  Turd is the word heard.  TURD!

Welcome to the farm!!!

It’s almost ours. We need to go through the inspection and of course there’s the handing over of funds and body parts and we also promised our first born grandchild. But you know what? It’s totally worth it, who needs their right arm anyway?   Let’s take a look around the place.  Come down the circle drive through the big shade trees..
Here’s the one story barn and Rechelle giving me the okay to purchase this little spot of heavenly bliss.
Who wants corn for dinner?  When you climb up in the tree fort you can see Mount Oread.  For those of you that aren’t Jayhawks, well, I’m sorry I can’t explain it any further than that.  The fella gazing out into the beautiful pasture is my realtor, Randy.  Dandy Randy the realtor.  I like to call him Rrrrrrranday, with a nice long Spanish roll of the rrrrrr.
Hoops?  Anyone?  Listen, you can’t live in a place where buildings are named after the man that created basketball and not have a basketball court, no, you can’t, it’s a regular feature on every home.
Thank you all for your kind words and the prayers that were said.  It’s nice to know there’s people that care if we have a home.  Tomorrow, I’ll show you a little bit inside. 

Now, back to sorting through our stuff and deciding what deserves to live in that sweet farmhouse.  If you live near me now and need “stuff”  I’m going to try to sell everything, even the chickens are up for grabs.   

My Dream House

Last night I dreamt that we built our house. The land we found was nestled between the interstate and an industrial plant. I went to check the progress of the house and the contractor had taken it upon himself to build an A-Frame. I told him this is not what we wanted and he told me something about a second story being too difficult for him to build, but maybe he could do it later.

As I stood in the dusty yard with the looming shadows of smoke stacks belching forth the days duty, I looked at the ill contrived house I was going to inhabit. I had begun my mental process of tearing out a wall and adding this or that, just trying to come up with a design for a shed dormer or something, anything, God this can’t be happening. Then the media came.

Yep, I said the media. Apparently, our house had started quite a buzz around whatever town we were in. You know, living in the median of an interstate highway is just what the ten o-clock news needs to boost some ratings. They were snapping photos and a helicopter was spotlighting the, the, the Thing that I was going to call home. Then the sales lady stopped by.

Yep, a sales lady with a four inch binder busting with fabric samples and glossy photos. I saw her mouth moving and watched her gesture towards the Thing. I looked at the pictures, I glanced at the open front door of the Thing and finally comprehended what she was attempting, “Are you trying to sell me furniture?” I sneered “Do you realized I have four children that will destroy everything in that book? And, I’m gonna be living in that, and you think I have the money to buy furniture?!” I yelled pointing my accusing finger at the Thing. Then I woke up and decided I spend waaaaaay too much time thinking about houses.