For several months, as Kathy and I pursued buying an old farmhouse, we kept telling each other that there may be something horribly wrong that we cannot see. Termites. Bad septic. Broken furnace. Something so wrong with the house as to torpedo the sale. We kept telling ourselves not to count our eggs, not to plan, not to get our hopes up until our offer was accepted and an inspector had checked the place thoroughly.
The inspection was last Friday. My heart sank as we entered the house. No heat, and water sprayed from the bathroom wall. No heat, burst plumbing. This was going to be bad... But that was the worst of it. The heat was turned on, the bathroom water turned off. One leak. Other than a few hundred dollars in plumbing repairs, we were seeing a remarkably updated and solid old farmhouse.
So now many months, years, of dreams came crashing in. My mind will not stop. What should we plant? Where? How will we dig up the garden? Do we need a tractor? A truck? How exactly do you use a barn? When should we get goats? No, we need fences before goats. What kind of fences? Where? Do we need barn cats? Dogs? Is eight acres enough? Too much? After months of supression, my mind is running 100 mph, with no brakes. Yeehaw!