|Boots muddy from backyard projects|
First, "I would hate to dig my own grave." Really? Why would that be so bad?
Then, "Can you imagine what it would have been like to dig out the basement of our house by hand? I've only dug a little hole five feet deep." Trust me, it isn't a "little" hole, but a large scar in our back yard.
Finally, "If I had to bury someone, I don't think I'd dig a rectangular grave. I'd just dig a 6 foot hole and crumple the body down into it." Good to know you're thinking ahead.
And then he called his brother and his brother's bobcat to come and help with the rest of the job. Weilding a shovel is not fun. When I helped him fill in the holes I decided that if I were in a forced labor camp I would probably be shot for stopping to wipe the sweat off my face one too many times. Hmmm... it seems that hard work brings thoughts of death to both our minds.
But let's not dwell on death or septic systems. Look what I found in the barn:
|130 year old spider webs. Fresh eggs.|
Hanging on another of our ancient out buildings is a thermometer that the Man of the House says doesn't work and I say does. Regardless, we have had a few scorching days this week and I've watched the red line move further and further in the clock-wise direction. I guess that's why I think it works. Would Germans put a thermometer up that didn't work? Did they even have plastic 130 years ago? This came with the house, so either there was a bit of time travel involved by the original owners to procure this tool, or it is a later addition. I don't know where they would have found a Delorian in 1890.
|I took this picture at not quite 10 O'Clock AM yesterday.|
But you know what? I don't feel guilty that I live now. With air conditioning and hair conditioning. With shorts and bobcats and deoderant and running water and energy to yell at my kids. I don't feel guilty about that at all.
Not much guilty.
Maybe I should go find my own Delorian.