When I was in my teens, Daddy built a house. It was a
split-level with five bedrooms, three baths, and an attached garage. I remember
helping to lay shingles and mix cement. Mostly I remember thinking it would
NEVER be finished. During much of that time we lived in a small camper parked
on the lot: Mother, Daddy, my two sisters, our kid brother, and me. I think the
experience has put me off vacationing in an RV to this day. Last week we had
some work done on our current house. We replaced a tub that hasn’t aged well
and a shower that wasn’t built to code, and added a bathroom door. (What kind
of idiot builds a doorless bathroom?) The ordeal brought those old memories
into sharper focus. It ALMOST made me wish I owned a motor home to escape to – a safe
place to avoid the noise, the dust and the chaos until it was all over.
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