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My House Arrived on Two Trailers
The house was mine: a boxy cabin with a wide front porch and a sweet kitchen, and a real bedroom and bathroom.
“Real” mattered, because in the gap between selling my Old House (three properties down the ridge) and being able to enter this new one, I was camping in a tent-trailer, sleeping on half a foam pad above all the items that made up my office and kitchen, and scurrying to a back corner of the battered garage to use a camping “potty” when nature called.
No shower. Cooking over the gas grill. Shivering at night, with the “indoor” temperature of the camper down to 40 degrees. At least, thanks to the electrician wiring up the garage, I could run an extension cord to the camper, to fire up my computer and keep my freelance editing business rolling. (Yes, that “hot spot” on the phone really does work, although it drains the battery more quickly.)
But my newly drilled well would provide clean water, the cable company promised high-speed connection, and I kept digging more garden spots in my stripped-down scrap of “wasteland” and adding young perennials and even some crabapple tree saplings.
