the heart work of eviction
My in-laws finally realized their dream. They moved out of the old farmhouse into a smaller home built at the edge of Big Creek.
Mom still had plenty of room in the new garage to set up her “museum” of old calendars, photos, farm implements, and antiques.
Dad stacked stones in the creek so it would gurgle just right. And Mom tied herself to a tree so she didn’t tumble into the water while she planted flowers on the bank. Then she potted some blooms in an old kettle once used to water a few horses. They erected a frame to hold the bell that hung in the one-room school Dad once attended, as did his father and grandfather and son—my husband.
They embedded their last name in the concrete.
Mom enjoyed this setting for only two years. She died suddenly at the age of 76. Then Dad had a stroke and moved into a nursing home. My husband and his sister sold possessions, divided family heirlooms, and became reluctant landlords. They filled the now empty home with renters . . .
Joining Jen and the sisters