Before our regularly scheduled programming, I need to make a side note about a previous post: "No Shit, Sherlock". I said that if I bought a house, I wouldn’t be able to ask Chuck to help me with it. What I meant was that I have hangups about asking him to sink his limited funds into a house that will be solely mine, even to the extent of maintenance or remodeling. If he knew I needed anything, from a switch plate cover to a granite counter top, he would do everything he could to get it for me. The questions, though, is whether it is fair to ask him. We did end up deciding to look at two of the properties my real estate agent found; but they have both been temporarily taken off the market. She says she’ll keep looking. In the meantime, if Chuck and I want professional advice about how we should handle managing our money together, what sort of person do we talk to?
While we get all that squared away, spring is trying to come to the mountains.
The sledding hill has lost its appeal.
The wood piles (for heating and for cooking) are both all gone.
The house is chilly.
The snow looks dirty and tired.
It is slowly melting to reveal some dirty little secrets, like the Christmas tree we blew up on New Year's that is still lying out there, festooned with soggy firework wrappers.
On the other hand
I can see the compost box.
The septic system has its own melty patch, exposing green grass.
I am re-reading Animal Vegetable Miracle, by Barbara Kingsolver, which is making me think about asparagus and...
I can see the sailboats…