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Having lived here at the Funny Farm for over twenty-three years and having gone through three trucks and five vehicles, it is only the purchase of Paul’s dream car, his ’64 Morgan Plus 4 (he gets annoyed if I leave off the plus 4), which has resulted in the construction of a garage.

That’s right: twenty-three years of the sun fading paint jobs, limbs bouncing off roofs and bluebirds of ‘crappiness’ fouling the windshields, it is only with the arrival of the Morgan that this latest outbuilding has been undertaken. Because Lord knows its long, snout of a hood—er, ‘bonnet,’ cannot be in anyway marked, especially as it is being repainted as we speak. 

I can’t help but to think my truck and Paul’s Subaru must be feeling somewhat miffed in the way that older siblings cast jealous eyes at the new ‘baby’ of the family, being all tucked in and fawned over, while they camp out, collecting pollen during the spring and wet leaves during the fall—not to mention the ever-present threat of mice nibbling electrical components within their dust encrusted engines. 

The area, just to the right of our I-hop of a cabin and placed just in front of the woods, has been graded and cement poured. Afterwards, Paul, being the handy sort of fellow that he is, will stick build the garage along with a terrific contractor friend (no, you can’t have his number or we’ll never see him again). This, of course, seems a great waste to me.

“It’s the perfect size and set up for a little two-stall stable.” I suggested.

“Because you need two more horses?” Paul replied sarcastically.

“Not need,” I wavered. “But maybe want. Like, not today, but you know, maybe I’ll see one, and—“

“Build your own barn,” Paul rebuffed me.

“Is it at least going to match the house?” I asked. “And not be some ugly, metal hulk of a building?”

“What, build an A-frame garage?” he said. “No, it’s going to be a straight forward wooden garage with barn doors and it’s going to be stained to match the house. It’s my man cave for the car and all my tools and no girls allowed.”

I blinked. 

“What are you, five?” I asked. “Is there a secret password to gain entrance, too?”

He was serious and I suppose he has a point. Besides a few flower beds and his wood shop, which used to be my radio studio, Paul really has nothing else of his own on our 27 acres. The horses have commandeered the rest of it with the riding arena, 2 barns, 2 fields, bridle trails throughout the woods and 3 paddocks.

“It’s going to be my garage, clean and professional.” he stated flatly before turning away.

Got it. 

And as soon as he’s in the house and the concrete’s still wet, I can’t think of a better way to Christen it than to lead a horse up to it and press a hoof print in each corner…