I don’t know why. I just do.

It’s just an old farm house. A really old farm house. A really really old farm house.

It doesn’t have any cool old wood work, unique layout, trap doors, secret passages or anything. It’s just a house, sitting in the middle of a wheat field, in the middle of Kansas, that smells like boys and Ben. I guess it’s smelling those pheremones that are intoxicating. I feel drunk on the smells, here. That’s why I like it.

I was intoxicated with the smell until I smelled something else….

It wasn’t these…

It wasn’t these…

Not these either…

It was this. Blue water. Not Caribbean blue…

I’m talking, Oh C-wrap! Somebody call the plumber, tell him to get in his crack into the honey wagon and get out here and take a look.

We did.

He did.

He said we needed a septic system update. Turns out old houses usually have old systems. He dug a hole, until we could wade through all the paperwork involved in getting a new system, then he called the next day and asked how we were getting along.

I told him the kids loved their new in ground swimming pool.

He groaned loudly, and said,”Awwwww, don’t let them play in it…”

Just kidding, plumber dude. Just kidding.

Turns out, this sosphisticated plumber doesn’t have a crack problem, but a great sense of humor.

Now I’M in a hole. I need to stop digging.

Oh the joys of living in an old house.

Reporting from the honey hole…

Sandhill Sis