By Lisa Huddleston

Today there is no peace on Hudfarm.  Roofers are here pounding and scraping and shaking the very foundation of my soul.  That Dottie is barking her odd little head off is not a lot of help either.  But, I guess, that’s the way it is when you have to get rid of old stuff that isn’t working anymore.  Even though it was supposed to last for 30 years, and it’s only been 15.  Even then—when it’s time to go, it’s time to go.

So the destruction begins.  Early in the morning so that no one can rest in the past comfort of false security.  Sleeping late under a roof that might at any moment decide to leak right into your warm, soft bed.

Bang! Bang! Bang! And even the pots hanging in the kitchen rattle with alarm accenting Dottie’s sharp, staccato yelps.  I know, Dottie, breaking up is hard to do.

But soon—perhaps even by the end of the day—a new roof will cover this place.  Another promise of 30 years.  We’ll hope for 15.

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