The Garage

Once upon a time, there lived a sweet couple. Not only were they newlyweds, they were also the proud new homeowners of a lovely gray ranch house on a shaded lot. The wife of this couple adored her little house, sans the duck-adorned wallpaper that came off even before the papers were signed. With great care this wife took to making this house a home.

The sweet husband was in dude heaven. He was not only the proud owner of a new John Deere lawnmower, and 3/4 of an acre to mow, he had a 3 car garage to store it in. The garage was not only huge; it was heated, had a full sized fridge/freezer combo, was full of cubbies and shelves and pegboards and hooks, and even had a pull down, walled attic above the third stall. It was bliss with a concrete floor. It was organized. It was a man's dream.

As the couple added to their family, the garage started to fill. A jog stroller as well as a baby travel system (fancy way of saying, another stroller) were covered with great care, blanketed in old sheets and unveiled when their precious baby girl arrived, only to be recovered to keep them in pristine condition. The third stall soon housed a neighbor's unused vehicle for a time being, since it was a wide expanse of unused space.

It still remained bliss on a concrete slab.

Alas, the couple moved from this sweet ranch, and left the lovely garage to another family. The couple moved to the country, and traded their three car garage for a detached, supposedly two car garage on a dirt/gravel road. They blissfully traded, do not get me wrong, but traded nonetheless. The strollers remained covered, but this country dust has a mind of it's own, creeping in through the old sheets.

Okay, enough weird story telling style. It's the dog days of summer; we're outside a ton; it hasn't rained in days, and I'm OVER my garage. We indeed did live in garage heaven, however, I wonder what it would have been like once the Little Tykes ride-on purchasing would have begun? I was never crazy about my garage in our old house, but what was there to be crazy about? There was a place for everything and everything had its place. However, we had ONE kid, who owned two strollers, one Cozy Coupe car and one Little Tykes boat. Now, it looks like a Little Tykes little stockholder and buying convention happened in my garage, as there is no more room in the inn for any other vehicle besides mine. I just went out to try to clear a path so that we could walk in, but it is futile.

Another exercise in futility is trying to keep this place clean. Between the grain dust and the road dusts, there's no point. My hope is some day to have a garage on the other side of the house, attached, not facing the road. Here's to hoping.

So, here's my question: is this normal? Am I living in a fantasy land, expecting my husband to help with the organization of our toys, balls, bikes and strollers (of which, we now have five...I know, it's sinful) amidst his chore boots, tools, and other supplies? Should I expect a guy who works all day, and some times into the night to give a rip about whether or not the bike helmet is on the right peg, and not resting atop a muddy and potentially cow-manure covered boot? Is is wrong to wish that some time, some day, someone else will notice my garage door is open, and close it before filling a semi, and subsequently a garage, full of pink grain dust? Yes, I love the color pink, no I do not like it all over everything.

Sigh.

This fairytale will not, however, have a tragic ending. The garage will not conquer me, as I will conquer it some day! I will continue my quest of sweeping, organizing, and sighing every time something is out of place. Do not fret, however, for this couple continues to be blissful homeowners, however, some day, some time, some where, they will live even more happily ever after, complete with an organized, clean, and lovely three car attached garage.

Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust

Why I decided to have dark wood furniture in my house is beyond me, but today the dust from our gravel road is good dust. The dust on our TV, coffee table, end tables, and basically any other flat surface in my house is the dust kicked up by the semis hauling grain to the elevator in town. The dust off to the west is grain dust from the combine, signaling the start to a new harvest season. The dust on Joe's clothes is from waiting in line at the elevator, as he unloads his grain.

This is good dust.



I never, ever thought I would say that. Ever. I hate our road. I hate that in the summer, it's so dusty our shoes get filthy while we play in the yard. I hate that in the spring, the wet weather causes it to ooze mud and slop, dirtying every crevice in every vehicle we own. I hate that my window sills are in a constant state of griminess, covered with dust no matter how hard I try to keep them clean.

However, today, I have come to terms with my road. While I'm not saying that if the road commissioner came to us and told us he'd be paving it tomorrow, I wouldn't do a small dance, I will say that today the dust on the road signifies the hustle and bustle that is harvest. Everyone wants to be a part of this today, and seeing the dust from the combine, my cousin jumped into my vehicle at the bus stop and asked to have me take him to his dad on the combine. The dust ahead of us on the road was from Joe's semi, and even though she's dead tired from kindergarten, Anna begged to ride with her dad. Dust today equals excitement.

Coupled with this excitement is hope for the season. We as a family have endured a pretty tight summer, and I have been told many times if I can "just hold out until harvest starts. . . " then I can fill in the blank. No, it does not include a new leather couch or a new wardrobe or trip to the Caribbean, but we're going to be able to be calm, for a while. Just as I have made peace with my dusty road, I am making peace with this lifestyle we have chosen. I need to quit whining about the little stuff, and realize how lucky I am to be able to see where my husband is at all times, and most of that is thanks to the dust.