26 February 2017
Houston, the house has landed.
I mean, it truly is here this time.
After the most distressing/confusing night before, my insomnia/dream/house-expectancy exhaustion thankfully gave way to a deep sleep.
Papa knocked on my door at 5am. My bed propelled me up and out, as if I’d pushed some previously masterfully-camouflaged eject button (which has since vanished, unfortunately).
I nearly tripped on my way out into the wet darkness, such was my urgency.
We drove too quickly down the driveway (sorry, neighbours), desperate not to miss the main event: the house coming across the tiny one way bridge and lumbering across papa’s gravel-filled ditch to our house spot.
Of course, our response time to the moving guy’s text was so record-breaking that we waited at the end of our driveway for an eternity half hour. Waiting in the dark car, every passing engine was a cruel false alarm. Finally, we heard what was unmistakeably two trucks laden down with a whole lot of aged wood and glass masquerading as a house.
Then we saw lights.
Mama and I clung to each other in the cold and uttered small shrieks as we watched the truck lift and tilt OUR HOUSE up and over the sides of the tiny one way bridge.
Papa went to his carefully gravel-clogged ditch and ‘guided’ the moving guys across. What he’d filled was not nearly wide enough, but those house-hauling trucks are not easily deterred. They went right through the ditch.
Once the house had landed, we had a brief interlude, during which we went back to the main house.
I cooked all our eggs and papa cooked bacon and we fed all the moving guys, while outside, a thick mist descended.
After breakfast and sunrise, I was relieved to find that no passers-by had made off with our house. Papa and I (ok, mostly papa) did the final eyeing up of the house site, and the trucks creaked the house into position.
Over the next two days, the moving guys swarmed over the house like ants, putting the roof back on (the roof was too tall to fit under powerlines), propping up the house on A-frames and stacks of wood, while I watched from my power-seat, the tractor wheel.
Every time we drove down the driveway, shock! There was a house.
So, that’s it.
The birthing process is officially over, and now it’s time to raise this little orphan house (hmm problematic metaphors…) to be an upstanding, model 100-year old house citizen.
Now the real fun begins.