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I was interviewed yesterday by a reporter from the local county paper. I’ve been interviewed quite a few times before, but always about my books. This time, the story was about my blog. And of course, everything was as difficult as possible considering it had been snowing for the past few days and we had agreed to meet out at the new farm. My boonies country road was in freak out condition with mud, snow, and ice. After driving two miles an hour for two and a half miles, I got to the house. And looked up the driveway. Which looked pretty much like the road except, you know, steeper.
But being the determined, competent farmgirl that I am, I put it in 4WD and barrelled right up there.
Okay, so that is not what happened.
I parked, hiked up the driveway, raced into the house and said, “Steve! Quick! Go get my car and drive it up the driveway or the reporter is going to think I’m an idiot who is afraid to drive up my own driveway!”
Used to me by now, Steve-the-Builder didn’t even blink. Took my keys, went down the driveway, got my car and drove it up. He is so handy. I wonder if after the house is done, I can just keep him in the pantry and take him out when I need him????


Then I chilled for a few minutes and checked out the latest progress. Drywalling was going on. Things are looking good! The house should be ready to move into in a few weeks!
Left, Jim Cooper, the reporter. He actually drove up the driveway all by himself. I knew it! MEN! It’s annoying how competent they are all the time.
But ha! I am, like, ALMOST competent. I am pretending to be competent. He has no idea I had to get Steve-the-Builder to drive my car up the driveway. I have competence oozing out my pores. I am drunk with competence.
Then I sat down in this chair and the legs on the left side of the chair bent, twisted under, collapsed.
And yes, me, on my ASS, on the porch.
Competence, how I miss you, let me count the ways……
Then he asked me a bunch of questions and took my picture and I managed to not do anything even more stupid, like fall over the railing or something. Then he drove his car down the driveway on his competent man cloud.
And I ran into the house. “Steve! You have to drive my car down the driveway…..”
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"It was a cold wintry day when I brought my children to live in rural West Virginia. The farmhouse was one hundred years old, there was already snow on the ground, and the heat was sparse-—as was the insulation. The floors weren’t even, either. My then-twelve-year-old son walked in the door and said, “You’ve brought us to this slanted little house to die." Keep reading our story....
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