Not without effort, we had a place to live. When we knew we would lose the farm, I started a concerted prayer-effort for a new home . . . anywhere for our two girls and us. Leaving Bible study one Thursday morning, I spotted a house that was obviously empty: overgrown yard, crumbling chimney, tattered curtains blowing out of broken windows. I checked with neighbors and tracked down the owner. He planned to donate it to the fire department and have the house burned down. We were desperate; I begged. It turned out that he had been a close friend of my husband's parents many years ago and, for friendship sake, he finally capitulated. The understanding was, however, that he would do nothing to improve the house. Its deplorable condition was a direct result of renters. If Ken and I wanted to fix it up ourselves, we could rent if for $100 per month.

     We agreed without hesitation. We had worked on houses in the past and both felt confident about our abilities. Besides, my mom and dad were willing to help with not only money for supplies but also, even more important, with plain, old, ordinary "grunt labor." Mom, Dad and I would frequently meet after I had dropped the girls off for school and get right to work. Dad brought his generator for the power tools and Mom donated their port-a-potty to the cause. We put an old, homemade, barrel-type wood stove in the living room and brought jugs of water. We had all the comforts of home. Ken joined us when he got off work and we often labored well into the evening.

     We tore out walls and built new ones, insulating as we went. We sheet-rocked and painted and glued down new vinyl floors. Ken repaired the chimney and the plumbing and rented giant jacks to hold up the house so that he could replace rotted support pillars. We ripped out old, dangerous electrical wiring and, with Dad's help, I put in all new wiring. In fact, except for the exterior walls and a couple walls inside, we gutted that whole house and started over.

     As Mom, Dad and I surveyed the pink "beaver board" covering the kitchen ceiling, Dad said, "I'm going to get the crow bar and we can pull that thing down in no time. Why, we can probably put up the lathe strips today and get the new firtex up tomorrow."

     "Bill," Mom chastised him, "you don't know what's up there. It's probably full of mouse nests and all kinds of things." She rarely agreed with any of Dad's suggestions, but our experiences with the house made me feel she was probably right about the mouse nests. "I'll get the ladder. Margaret, you get a big box. If I take it down carefully, a section at a time, we can keep the mess confined and pack it out to the burn pile a box-full at a time. It might take a little longer, but it'll be better."

     "Oh, for heaven's sake, Ruth," Dad made no effort to disguise his exasperation, "why make an all-day project of it. We can just tear it down and haul out the shop vac and clean it up. That's what we've done with the whole house, why change now?"

     "Well, why in the world do you want to make a mess when you can avoid it?" Mom was getting set for a full-scale argument.

     Dad and I exchanged a glance. "Aw, do whatever you want," Dad's voice was resigned, "you're going to, anyway." He shrugged and headed off to do something else while I dutifully went to get a box. He would save his energy for other, more important issues.

     Mom worked all morning in big, leather gloves methodically cleaning out a section at a time before pulling it down. But, in truth, she had underestimated what we might find there. Above that ceiling, it was packed with mouse and rat nests and droppings. We all wore paint masks to prevent breathing in any particle of the dust and filth. Just before lunch time, Mom called Dad and me in. Her box was full again and needed to be emptied. It had taken three hours and she was about half done. She took off her gloves and started down the ladder but as she did so, the ladder swayed slightly. The box of debris lurched from the paint shelf. It hit the floor flat and the rebound resulting from the impact caused its contents to spew up and out. Mouse nest, mouse droppings and chunks of ceiling and other, unrecognizable bits flew in all directions. Dust rolled up into the air as if from an explosion, the open back door providing just enough breeze to blow the garbage into the rest of the house. We were powerless to do anything to stop it and stood there, all three of us, like statues until the last of the rubble finally settled to the floor and to the tools and to our heads.

     "Well, shucks," said Dad, slowly surveying the residue covering the room and everything in it, "if I'd known that's what you wanted, I could have done it in half the time!"