The Quilt

Seventeen years ago our daughter survived every parent's nightmare,  a horrendous car accident,  After spending 3 weeks in the hospital we finally brought her home.  Looking at her, barely making a lump in the hospital bed set up in the living room, I realized that I was going to have to take care of her all by myself without the constant attention of the dedicated hospital staff.  I was as terrified as I had been when we first brought her home from the hospital eighteen years earlier.  Sheer panic at the responsibility I faced kept me awake both of those "first nights".

The next weeks and months were a microcosm of those first years of raising our baby.   I bathed her, washed her hair, fixed her special foods, worried over her sleeping, jumped at every sound, and was fiercely protective.  As the days moved into weeks and she became stronger, I had to force myself to step back and let her attempt to do things "on my own".   It was no easier watching her take her first steps on crutches than it was to watch her toddle unsteadily on bowed legs as a baby.  The urge to coddle and do for her was overwhelming.  Fortunately, for both of us, my determinedly independent daughter would have none of it. 

Weeks grew into months and she was making plans to go back to college.  On crutches, under her doctors' supervision, and taking therapy, she still was determined to return to campus.  Leaving her this time was the hardest thing I have ever done.  She stood, braced on her crutches, and waved happily as we pulled away.  I returned to a home that felt achingly empty and still.   After months of dedicating my every moment to taking care of her, I was suddenly at a loss of how to fill my time. 

Wandering through Walmart on a supply buying trip my attention was caught by a kit in the craft section.  It was a quilt featuring a big "K" for her school, the University of Kentucky.  I picked it up and carried it home.  For weeks I appliqued big blue "K's" on squares, then stitched the squares together in blocks, and added a border.  I then started the laborious process of adding quilt batting and a backing.  For months I sat at night and quilted on the UK quilt for her bed.  In the meantime, she gained in strength and healing.  She moved to a new apartment, made more friends, found a boyfriend (or six or seven) and I quilted on. 

Time passed.  She thrived and my need to be constantly busy was channeled into other things and the quilt was folded away on a shelf.  She graduated from college, got a job, got engaged and then married to a guy from Iowa.  I figured she would never need a UK quilt and forgot all about it. 

Christmas she was rummaging in my sewing room looking for some material for her oldest to do some "stitching" on and she came across the quilt.  She smoothed her hand over it, slowly.  "You never finished it."  she said quietly.  "Well, I got over feeling so lonely and your life moved on ....."  I sighed.  "Can you finish it?"  she asked quietly.  I looked up at her.  With a tear in her eye she said, "I know that each stitch stands for your love.  I would treasure it forever."

Sometimes children are so rewarding.

I have to hurry.  I have a quilt to finish.

Deadly Taxus

During the years I worked as an Extension Agent few events stand out in my mind like the young dairy farmer who had mysteriously lost an entire field of young calves.

I looked up one morning from my desk to see one of my Homemaker Club member's husband coming in the door.  He approached the secretary's desk with some agitation as I approached to say hello.  "Where's the Ag. Agent?  I need help--now!" he sputtered.  The Agriculture agent soon appeared and the story came tumbling out.  He had put his, newly weaned, replacement heifers in the front field of his farm close to the house.  He wanted them nearby so he could monitor their health and feed them easily.  They had grazed and thrived in the field for a few weeks and he was getting ready to move them in with his herd.  Then, this morning, he went out to feed and found them all dead.  He was frantic to find out what had killed all his heifers.

Together the two men left and returned with samples of the feed, mineral, grasses, water, and anything else they could find in the field to test.  These were sent off to the University of Kentucky research department for analysis.  In the mentime one of the calves was sent to the Diagnostic Research Center, which would test for anything that might have poisoned them, such as pesticides or just plan malice.  Then they waited.

In the meantime, I had an occasion to visit with the young wife who told me how utterly distraught her husband was over the loss of the calves.  Not only were they an expensive loss but he took the blow to his farming skills very seriously.  It was a gloomy visit for they both felt very low about the events.

The results from the samples sent from the field came in first.  None of the items showed anything except what should be there.  There was nothing in the feed, mineral, grasses or water that could explain the sudden death of the calves.  In frustration, the couple pinned their hopes on the tests on the calf.

Several days later the young couple returned to the office with the official report from the Diagnostic Lab on the heifer.  The Agriculture Agent studied the form and excused himself for a moment.  On entering the outer office he grabbed a book and started thumbing through it mumbling to himself.  "Yep.  There it is.  Oh, no." he whispered to himself as he found the reference he was searching for.  Visibly girding himself, he marched back into the office.  He approached the young farmer and his wife and said, "It seems that your calf died from ingesting taxus." 

With puzzlement on his face the farmer looked up and inquired, "What on earth is that?"  "Well", the Ag. Agent replied, "it is an evergreen shrub that is often used in landscaping.  It's extremely poisonous and it is possible that someone trimmed their bushes and dumped the clippings in your field." Before he could continue, an anguished wail came from the young wife.  "What do they look like?" she moaned.  Upon hearing the description, she fell into sobs. "I did it!  I killed them all!"

 It seems she had decided to trim the bushes in front of their home and cleaned up the yard by, indeed, tossing the refuse over the fence.  Neither of them knew of the extreme toxicity of the taxus bush.  Even small amounts can kill cattle, either freshly cut or months later as dried stems. 

Their marriage survived the event, but she still won't talk about that time to this day.

I know I'll never forget it.  There will never be a taxus shrub on our farm. 

The Bible Study Group

When you live on a farm, nothing ever goes like you think it will.

It was my turn to host the women's Bible study group from our church.  This event required an in depth cleaning of the house.  No one ever ventured upstairs but no area was ignored in case they might.  The hostess was also responsible for providing a dessert.  The dessert was served on the best china, silver and tablecloth.  In short, it was quite an undertaking. 

The house was ready, the dining room gleamed with freshly polished silver, and the dessert was ready to serve.  Hubby, nobody's fool, figured that the best thing he could do would be to take the kids and leave us to our study and visiting.  The ladies arrived and were soon settled into chairs in the living room.  Forgetting that not everyone is used to living with animals, I had failed to lock up the house cat.  She, with the unerring instinct of felines, had made a bee line for the visitors, curling up under one little lady's chair.  Naturally, she was terrified of cats, so soon was perched with her feet hooked on the top rung of the chair.  Flustered I removed the offending cat and prayed nothing else would happen.

The meeting progressed and we were soon into the Bible lesson.  As the leader expounded on the text my mind wandered and my gaze was caught by a movement outside of the window.  I focused intently with a look of horror on my face.  Peacefully grazing through the side yard (and my flower beds) were the four young bulls supposedly safely locked in the barn lot.  I slipped casually from my seat and strolled into the kitchen, where I bolted for the back door.  Flinging it open I raced around the house hoping the bulls would proceed quietly back to the lot.  Thinking it a wonderful game, they kicked up their heels and scattered.  I glanced back in time to see a window full of faces staring out at the circus unfolding in the yard.

I decided to change tactics and reversed to go back to the barn.  A voice called from the porch, "Can we help?"  "No, I've got it under control", I yelled as I raced back across the yard.  Reaching the barn I grabbed a bucket and threw in a scoop of feed--enough to make it rattle good.  Then I ran back across the yard again, beginning to get a little winded with all the running.  Scooting to a stop so I wouldn't spook the bulls, I began rattling the grain in the bucket, speaking softly, between gasps.  The bulls, hearing the grain, decided that sounded like a better idea than shrubs, started ambling over.  Soon I was leading a string of bulls, like the Pied Piper, back across the yard and into the barn lot. 

By now the entire group of ladies was standing on the porch, Bible study forgotten, totally fascinated by the entertaing sight of their hostess running around the yard. 

It certainly is never is dull on the farm. 

The Homestead

You inherit a lot of things from your family.  I inherited a love of books and words from both my parents, who were avid and eclectic readers.  Which meant that although I was as active as most children of the time, I could be found curled up with a book more often than not.  I also come from a long line of great cooks, so I inherited a love of food.  Unfortunately, along with that, I inherited, from both grandmothers, an efficient body that didn't waste a bit of that food.  The result was a tendency from early on to put on weight.

My mother was beginning to become concerned but didn't want to put much emphasis on it.  She recognized that time would take care of most of the problem if it wasn't allowed to get out of control.  What I needed was an incentive to be more active.  So, I spent a summer playing softball at the local park.  I played catcher, first base, outfield and the bench.  A couple of problems.  One, I'm not terrifically coordinated or athletic.  Two, I wore incredibly thick glasses that tended to create curves that distorted the trajectory of a ball.  Therefore, my glove was never in the right place for a catch.  End of softball career.

My dad, seeking to satisfy both his wife and daughter decided to take matters into his own hands.   He began asking casually if I would like to take a hike to this spot or that in the surrounding knobs(foothills of the Applachians).  We would drive out into the knobs, park and take off into the trees.  In this manner I spent wonderful hours learning about the knobs, woods, trees, wildlife and woodland plants, as well as, toning up a lot of my baby fat.  An easy teacher with a deep love of the hills he would point out how to identify trees, plants, tracks and animal habitats as we hiked.  All of this was done in the deep solitude and peace of the quiet woods, far from other people.

However, one day I found that we weren't the first people to enjoy these woods.  We had been climbing up to a ridge for some time when we came across an old road bed.  This wasn't all that unusual since people had been living in the area for a couple of hundred years.  The road bed was little more than a path but reasonably clear of large trees so we followed it along the ridge top.  We found ourselves entering into a small clearing in the woods.  There nestled back in a small orchard of apple, peach, and cherry trees stood a small cabin.  The porch was falling in and grape vines and brambles grew over the railings, but it was mostly intact. The yard was over grown with occasional flowering plants struggling to survive.  It had obviously been abandoned for some years.  Hoping to find some tin cans or other trash to use for targets (we never hiked without rifles, mostly for target shooting) we wandered over to the door.  After checking for soundness we entered the front of the little house. 

To our amazement it looked like the occupants had just gotten up from breakfast and left.  Placed around the interior were the remnants of a bed, chairs, shelves and  a table.  The table still had a few dishes on it, clothes and bedclothes were laying in tatters, where animals had nested.  The windows had strings of material where curtains had hung.  The shelves still held a few jars of fruit, probably canned from the trees outside. While weather and inquisitive animals had destroyed much of the belongings there was still enough left to see the life they had lived. 

We pondered over time wondering what had happened to the people from the little cabin. The clearing showed signs of care and hope for the future (fruit trees aren't a short term dream) and the home, with it's roses gone wild, spoke of permanence.  The question was, what could make them leave so suddenly? Why had they never returned?  Had they taken ill or just given up?

We continued to visit the little homestead over the next few years, enjoying the peace and the little orchard, someone had lovingly planted.  Hiking up one day we noticed that the old road showed signs of recent use.  We walked on following the tracks right into the clearing.  The tracks led around the house to the back.  There, behind the fruit trees, was a small family cemetery we had noticed before.  Continuing to follow the tracks we found a new grave in the little grouping of markers. 

Whoever had built and loved the little homestead had come home again.

The Cook

I was fortunate to be raised by parents who understood the need for children to feel proud of themselves and to also feel they were contributing to the family.  My mother worked outside of the home in a time when most mothers were stay-at-home moms.  My father was very supportive and we understood from an early time that her job meant we would have more "things" but would also mean she would not be doing all of the household chores.  That meant that my sister and I would be expected to pick up the slack.  So we could often be found folding clothes, dusting, or running the sweeper, among other chores.

My mother would work until five o'clock then stop by her parent's to see if they needed anything and check on them.  It was unusual if she arrived home before six o'clock.  Since I had always loved being in the kitchen and helping cook, she soon had me starting a few things before she got home.  I would peel potatoes, set the table, or put on a pot of green beans.  She gradually taught me more and more until I was preparing most of the meal with instructions over the phone. 

The next step was to turn supper over to me completely.  She established a meal plan - a meat, two vegetables and a salad- then gave me freedom to decide from there.  I had to get approval of my meals but she rarely criticised, rather she would make a suggestion or recommendation.  I'll have to say, my family was remarkably tolerant, considering that at 12 or 13 years old my ideas of taste were a little unformed. 

The first time I decided to make a chicken dish that required cutting up a whole chicken was an experience.  Before she left for work, mother drew me a diagram of how to cut each piece, explaining how it would be done.  I arrived home from school and blithely started to cut up my chicken.  Getting the wings off was easy.  The legs were a bit more of a challenge, but soon they were in a drumstick and thigh.  I wrestled the remaining carcass around the kitchen for a while, making lots of pokes but little progress.  In desperation I called her at work.  "Help!"  I sputtered, "this thing has about beat me to a draw!".  She laughed and began to "talk" me through the process of separating the back from the breast and then splitting the breast into halves.  I have seldom been so proud of any accomplishment as I was of those mangled chicken pieces.  To this day when I cut up a chicken, I can hear her voice in my ear explaining each step.

What my parents gave me wasn't just a love of cooking that has endured to this day, but rather a sense of worth and accomplishment.  At a time when my friends were still whining about having to make their beds, I was preparing meals for my family.  It was with a great sense of pride that I would leave my friends giggling and sipping cokes at the drugstore because I had to get home to start supper.  I felt needed as a contributing part of the family.  My mother never missed an opportunity to tell her friends how much she relied on her girls to help her out, making us feel ten feet tall.  I can never remember feeling that we were forced or nagged into helping.  My parents were able to make us understand the need of every person to work and help each other out.  They also understood the need of every child to feel important and special. 

Thanks, mom, for teaching me the joy of working and giving to my family.

The Tractor Hunt is Over

Late the other afternoon I answered my phone to hear, "I'm coming up the driveway!" "Uh, o..k...?" I replied, wondering why on earth hubby would call to tell me that.  "I'm in the new tractor" he continued with excitement.  With that I ran out the door to watch the parade, as they convoyed the new tractor home.

The hunt was officially over a few days ago, when hubby finally decided to go on and buy the new tractor and quit hunting all over the U.S. for a used one.  The local dealer kept sweetening the deal until he could no longer resist the siren song.  So now he was home with his new GREEN tractor.  It's the first green tractor ever on the farm...in fact it is the first new tractor we have ever owned. 

After a quick congratulatory hug, he grinned and said he would be in after he had rearranged a few things in the barn so he could get his tractor out of sight.  Huh?  Out of sight?  Then I started laughing.  I knew exactly what his problem was.  You see we live in RED country.  Most, if not all, of his friends drive red tractors.  Buying a green one will cause considerable teasing and ribbing from the surrounding farmers.  Especially since this green tractor was definitely a Cadillac version.

It hasn't been so long ago that all the tractor work was done with hubby sitting exposed to whatever weather was happening.  Rain, sleet, snow, wind,  or extreme heat all pounded down while he sat in his exposed seat.  We thought the move to our first cab tractor was the move to luxury.  This one, however, is as nice as his pickup truck, which is nicer than my car!

Our son was chuckling as he listed the "comfies" of the new workhorse. It not only has a cab but automatic windshield washers on the front and back.  It has heat and air conditioning with an automatic thermostat, so he doesn't have to keep regulating his comfort.  An air-ride seat keeps him floating over the bumps in the field.  The crowning touch is that it even has cruise control!  Of course, we don't have a field big enough to need it, but it is a cool option.  Hubby made sure it was equipped with a buddy seat for the grandkids to use when they ride along.  If they can stand it, that is, since it also has a cigar lighter and an ashtray.  Our son shook his head slowly, it doesn't, unfortunately, have a sun roof. 

The next day he could hardly wait to finish Sunday lunch, then he tore out to the barn.  He would be back later, he called, he had to scrape the feed barn with his new loader and tractor.  I smiled at his excitement as he went out to play with his new toy.  He returned later beaming with satisfaction at the performance of his new equipment.

He had, however, carefully parked the tractor behind the haybales and out of sight from passing farmers.

Ghost Rides

My father and his brother were world class story-tellers.  They would, on the drop of a hat, settle in for an afternoon or evening of enthralling yarns.  Some would be funny, some exciting, and some would carry a moral or point they wanted to make.  The best ones, though, were the scary ones.  And the best place for a scary one was on a ghost ride.

In our little town, summer evenings were long (no day light saving time so it got dark before bedtime).  Kids and adults would take to the yards to enjoy the coolness of the evenings and visit with their neighbors.  We youngsters would be running in packs as we played hide-and-seek or kick-the-can.  Sometimes, when we became too obnoxious or just tired of the same old games, daddy and Uncle Ben could be teased into a "ghost ride". 

Daddy had a furniture store so he usually drove one of the big panel trucks home for the night.  He would load all the neighborhood kids into the back, cozily cushioned on piles of furniture pads.  Then he or Uncle Ben would get in with us and close the big back door.  It total and absolute darkness, relieved only by daddy's small flashlight, we would start our journey.  The truck would sway and shift as we traveled to some undisclosed spot out in the county.   Our guide would begin to build the anticipation by telling us that we had to do exactly as we were told when we arrived because of some unnamed menace lurking outside.  After what would seem to us to be a long drive, we would stop and the back doors would be opened.  At that moment, daddy would discover a problem with the flashlight, which left us in darkness.

We would gather close to the two men and be instructed to sit quietly in a circle.  Usually we found ourselves on a dirt road in the woods or sometimes on a bridge over a gurgling stream.  (Woods were always more fun for us townies.)  Then they would begin to tell ghost stories.  They were so tuned in to each other that they would pass the story back and forth without missing a beat.  One elaborating on the others ideas until we were peering into the dark and jumping at every frog croak.  We would then be instructed, in an agitated tone, to be absolutely quiet.  "Did you hear that?' one would ask.  "I think so...do you think it is????" the other would reply.  "We better get these kids to be quiet or it will find us!"  "Listen, listen hard...do you hear it?"  We would all sit and strain our ears until every sound was magnified and the night was filled with chirps, grunts, and buzzing. 

It never failed.  At some point during the tense listening, an owl would hoot or a fish would jump, or sometimes we would hear the harsh screech of a bobcat in the woods.  At that the men would jump up and yell for us to get in the truck quick!  Like a flock of frightened chickens we would scramble and run for the safety of the back of the truck.  Once inside the doors would close and the flashlight would miraculously work again as daddy counted noses.  He would heave a sigh of relief, "Thought maybe we had lost  little Bobby that time, but we got away."

After a quiet drive back he would deliver the now sleepy children safely to their parents.   Who needed television, we had ghost rides!

The Flirt

Hubby's grandfather was an incurable flirt,  but he carried it off with such class and style that no one ever held it against him.

When I knew him he was a tall, handsome man with thick white hair which fell in a wave over his forehead.  He had bright blue eyes that held a glint that warned of a joke to come.  And, boy, did he love the girls.  When the boys would bring home a new girl to introduce, he would throw open his arms and welcome you to the family with a warm hug.  As I quickly learned, the trick was to get the hug in and get out before he managed a mild grope.  His intentions were harmless, he just really loved women.

Elvis Presley was once asked, "What is your idea of the perfect woman?"  His answer was, "female".  That pretty much summed up Grandaddy, he was enchanted by all females.

Granny was a saint.  She was the epitome of the perfect lady.  From the top of her carefully bunned hair to the tip of her black shoes she was a gentlewoman.  Yet, she never did more than look at him in amusement when he would get up to his tricks.  Her look said it all.  "He's like a dog chasing a car.  He's having a great time but wouldn't know what to do if he caught one!"

He was never crude or obnoxious about his delight.  When his only granddaughter married he was thrilled and proud to stand in the receiving line as they greeted the guests.  He welcomed each female, from babies to grandmothers, with a warm hug and a kiss.  His only regret was that he only had one granddaughter to marry off.  (He still managed to get in a few hugs and kisses during the grandson's weddings.)  He was gracious, charming, handsome, and none of the women ever minded the gentle squeeze and respectful smooch on the cheek.

Granny and Granddaddy went to Florida every winter for an extended visit to escape the cold and ice.  Granddaddy soon would establish a pattern of taking a walk on the beach each day.  He would stroll along, calling out greetings to friends and making new friends.  Before long he would spot some luscious young thing working on her tan.  He would amble over and gently comment.  "Excuse an old man for being forward, but your back is getting a little pink.  Maybe I could help you get a little more sun lotion on that hard to reach spot."  He would then carefully, and gently, smooth the sun lotion over the smooth, young back.  Then he would tip his hat and wander on down the beach with a renewed spring to his step.

He was a classic.

A God's Eye View

I can't remember a time when I wasn't enamoured with flying.  I guess it started with some childhood books that featured a character that flew a small plane.   Whatever the reason, I have been fascinated with flying ever since.  As a child I begged for flying lessons like other children begged for ponies and bicycles.  I talked of it all the time and evidently drove my parents crazy with my babbling.  I remember one day, my mother had reached the limit with my incessant begging.  "OK", she announced with her hands on her hips, "If you are very, very good...", my heart gave a mighty leap, "someday you'll get to heaven and God will give you wings!  Until then hush up about it!"  I knew it was time to "hush up".

My flying never got past flying in commercial airliners, but my fascination continues. 

I love the feeling of leaving the solid ground and becoming airborne.  I can't get over the amazement that something the size of a jumbo jet, filled with people (and all that luggage!) can smoothly and gracefully take to the air.  No amount of scientific explanation works--to me it's just magic!  I have no fears, or terrors, just anticipation and delight as I watch the land that I just stood on shrink and become a part of a mosaic picture spread before my eyes.  I search out landmarks as I gaze, enraptured, by the different perspective of buildings, roads, cars, trees, fields, and rivers flowing underneath me.

As we get higher, I am able to see the vastness of our land and how it varies from region to region.  Close to home I see the valleys and tree filled hillsides with meandering streams flowing through.  The little roads wind and ramble along the topography with smaller paths leading off to farms and houses tucked into secluded spots.  The thousands of little ponds wink and flash in the sunlight.  I look at the fields, like little squares in a quilt, outlined in trees and dark green, stitching it all together.

As I travel west, the land smooths out and doesn't look so much like a quilt that is rumbled and bunched.  Now it is smooth and flat.  The fields become bigger and show the straight rows of plowing or last season's crops.  Occasional green clumps show the places where  trees have been planted for shade and wind breaks.  Nestled in these clumps are homes and farm buildings.  As you go further west you begin to see great round circles on the land, where farmers have irrigated the dry land into verdant, flourishing fields.  Everywhere it looks bountiful, manicured, and carefully tended. 

I think only from the sky can you begin to appreciate the strength of the farmers and the land that they love.  When you see the careful tending of the land, from the little patches of fields to the great spread of the plains farms, you have an understanding of the work, effort, dedication, and determination that farmers have used to bring forth the crops and produce from this great land.  They have created a work of art for God's own eyes.

The next time you fly, look out the window and appreciate the farmers who cultivate the beauty and bounty spread out below you.

Tractor Hunt

Hubby picked me up at the airport after I had spent a few days in Chicago helping our daughter attend the Children's Apparel Mart.  Absence does make the heart grow fonder, so I was looking forward to seeing hubby again.  When I reached the baggage claim area where he usually waits for me I was surprised that he wasn't there.  I plucked my phone out of my purse (what did we do before cell phones) and called to see where he was.  I was a little surprised to get no answer but thought he might be in traffic and unable to answer.  A moment later my phone "sang" to me.  It seemed he was waiting outside and would meet me when I collected my bag. 

I did as instructed and soon was approaching the truck where he could be seen talking to himself.  Actually, it's the new technology and hands-free calling.  He was on the phone.  A moment later he was hefting my bag into the back and after a quick hug jumped back into the truck.  We pulled out of the airport while I was bubbling with news to tell him of my trip with our daughter.  Before I could get started the phone rang.  It was one of his cronies who was in on the great tractor hunt.  It seems one had been found around Lexington, but he wasn't sure of the price.  Before that call ended another one came in.  He returned the missed call and it was a friend who was a dealer who was working on a "sweet" deal on a new tractor.  He had just hung up and I had taken a deep breath to tell him my news when it rang again.  This was another buddy who had found a tractor with 2000 hours on it but the price was right.  This continued all the way home.  It seems the tractor hunt is really and truly on.

Hubby is a very social person.  He loves people and has lots and lots of friends.  Most of them farmers or associated with farming.  It didn't take long for the word to get around that hubby was really searching for a tractor.  They all wanted to do a favor for him, plus there is nothing more fun that spending someone else's money.  So everyone and their pet duck is in on the hunt.  The phone never stops ringing with reports of tractor sightings around the state and country.  Everyone is having a wonderful time.

Last night, hubby, finally had a few minutes to talk.  He rambled on about this tractor and that one.  One has too many hours on it.  One has a part missing that is back ordered and may never come in.  One needs fenders, a buddy seat, and doesn't have a loader or hay spear.  This one has too many rust spots.  That one needs tires.  "You know," he mused, "the best deal is probably the new one.  It's not much higher and I wouldn't be paying for someone else's wear and tear."  I just looked at him. 

I can't believe how times have changed.

The tractor in question costs just slightly less than the farm did when we bought it 30 years ago, and that included the house!