I have died and gone to heaven.
Since June 1984, we've lived in a great little 3-bedroom twin in a great neighborhood. Little by little, the neighborhood changed dynamics as people left, new people moved in. Some of you know that basketball hoops sprang up like weeds behind my house, and TFrog's alarm was constantly going off as wayward basketballs bounced off my car.
Last year, the little girl two doors up went into heat, and it wasn't unusual to see 40 to 50 kids hanging around out back of my house in the alleyway on a Friday or Saturday night (or, hell, ANY night in the summertime). This past year, the neighbors on the other side of the adjoining wall added a small dog, and that damn dog barked NONSTOP whenever they went out. And they went out a lot. Chinese dog torture.
So we decided to move.
I insisted only on a two-car garage, and enough ground to putter around on. The house itself was Jean's choice. And she made a great one.
We now live on a super-quiet cul-de-sac in the outer burbs of Philadelphia (horse country). The property backs up to a reservoir and has an alleged .62 acre. Cutting the grass yesterday, I'd swear it was larger.
The best way I can describe it is that it's like living in a vacation home, but the interior is like staying at a better hotel. We can't believe it's ours.
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