At 1pm tomorrow, I close on the farmhouse.
To say that I'm excited would be a severe understatement. The six months leading up to this point have been filled with a unique brand of stress that I can't quite name and might not wish on my worst enemy.
For the property's grand inauguration of the property, the 'champagne bottle across the bow,' so to speak, I'll be plotting out and sheet mulching next year's veggie garden plots all this weekend, in one smelly extended orgy of composted horse manure, yard waste, and straw. Oh yeah, and moving all my stuff in, too.
Advil, anyone?
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