When the Creek Rises

I have so much to say , for many things have happened in my absence . . yet I can scarce think how to begin!  Words and thoughts are all jumbled up and come out scrambled and senseless.  It all started when I sold the old farmhouse on the rabbitpatch.  Somehow, I was “locked out” of my blog, I realised a few days later.  I was extra busy, so I thought I would tend to that shortly.
That was in September.  The closing day was October 15th, and so I began hunting for a rental to make due  til the dust settled.  I  told everyone that I knew, that I was looking for a modest home and implored their help.  Meanwhile, I packed boxes.  I called several businesses for rental homes, in every spare minute.  I was aghast at the cost of renting.  It was three times my house payment, on average -and nobody allowed dogs!  After a few weeks, I was a bit concerned about my situation.  One house was adequate though I thought it expensive . . but they wouldn’t allow a dog on any terms.  I started driving around the small town, that I worked in, every day after school looking for empty homes.  One day, I saw a small hand made rent sign out front of a dreadful little house in a quaint and charming neighborhood.  The yard was untended and had an unruly hedge lined yard.  Trees were covered in ancient vines.  The house was every bit as old as the one I was selling . . but smaller.  Somehow, a farmhouse had remained snuggly nestled in while darling little cottages with neat yards had sprung up like poppies, all around it.   Of course, I called about it, anyway.  Pickings were slim! 
As it turned out, I knew the landlord and his wife.  The price was manageable, if I was careful and best of all . . Pets were allowed.  I made an appointment to see the house the next day.  It was the dirtiest house that had ever seen and I was certain, that the smell would remain forever etched in my mind.  On top of that, what color was the walls and the doors and the windows and the ceiling?!  Everything was the same peculiar color.  It was as if brown and purple and beige and pink were  combined to make some shade of color . . but what it was called, I could not say.  The house did have a few things going for it.  The neighborhood was pristine not counting this little house on the corner.  Pets were allowed . . .and it was the only house I could find. 
Mama went with me the next time.  The landlord had painted the walls a beige color, lighter than it was, but still odd.  The smell had gone from “worst ever to just bad”.  He said, he had some more things to do to the house, in our last conversation . . .and I agreed, with all my heart.  A few days later, as I was scrubbing dirt and grime and gathering rubbish, someone came in and said, the landlord had suffered a stroke.  I was stunned.  The landlord is my age and seemed as fit as could be.  It was a dreadful shock and I cried for he and his family at that very moment.  I was grateful that though his recovery was expected to be lengthy, recovery was a possibility.
For the next two weeks, I worked nights at the little house.  I took over the painting and added an ivory color, which softened the palette of the interior.  Kyle trimmed the hedges and cleaned the yard which made a huge difference. The landlords’ wife, honored the verbal deal, that had been struck and was pleased that the old and little house on “Bonnet street” was being tended.  Sister Delores made curtains and bought cream colored mums for the front porch.  Tres and Sarah spent a weekend hauling large furniture.  Mama kept us fed.  Love was showing up everywhere and the little house smelled sweet and shone fairly.  Neighbors dropped by to brag on our progress and express their gratitude that at long last, the neighborhood was without blemish.
  A day or so later, I called the realtor to get details on the time and location of “the closing”.  She said to check my emails.  That is when, I found out that the buyers had changed their mind . . .