Over the weekend, the people who own the house we want to buy accepted our pathetic monetary offer. I just about wept with glee.
This house is old and has a lot of land (7 acres). That being said, it’s not really the kind of house that banks tend to like. So there’s still plenty of opportunity for us to fuck all this up and not get the home we dreamed of. That sounded more bitter than I meant it; basically, the bank is going to be the cold, calculating Vulcan as it looks at the home quality while we’re running around screwing blue alien chicks and shoulder-tossing people who piss us off, Kirk style.
We couldn’t help ourselves; we drove up to the house on Sunday and romped through the fields that will someday, hopefully, be ours. We sat and watched the storm coming in and listened to the cicadas. When I told my godfather about this place, he said it was going to be a “life’s work.” And I felt OK with that.
Anyway, here’s the best part. On the way out, we drove past this escarpment that abuts our driveway. We noticed that the hill “dented” in a bit on one part – when I went to check it out, I pushed vines back and saw a locked wooden door. A freaking secret passage, goddamit! How awesome is that? If we get the house by Halloween (and I hope we do), we’re going to crack that sucker open Indiana Jones style and face whatever nameless evil lurks behind that eldritch door.
It’s probably a cold cellar.