A second daughter has launched into a home renovation project, which means that our tools and my aging muscles are getting regular weekend workouts.
She is working on a house that was built in the 1930s her great-great and great grandfathers.
I learned the history of the house while riding around the countryside on hot summer days with my grandpa in his old pickup truck with its AM-only radio, no air-conditioning, and hand-crank windows. I had found a bell the size of a dorm refrigerator in his pasture near a pile of old lumber and wanted to know about it.
Turns out, it came from the one-room schoolhouse he and his brother had attended in the early 1920s. And that’s not all he got from that old school during the Great Depression. He and his dad had secured salvage rights to the building, pulled it apart board board, and hauled the lumber to the family farm.
There, they built a second house. It would become the home for my great-grandparents and their daughter, my grandpa’s sister, who lived with a disability and needed constant care. The original house on the farm, which had been their house, became home to my grandparents, where they raised my dad and his sisters.
Later, it became a rental house to supplement my grandparents’ income, and in the 1980s, when my parents moved into the original house, they renovated the second house for a bed and breakfast, which my dad operated for 30 years.
And now, with