It was a productive trip to Cold Mountain last weekend. We passed a major inspection--electrical, plumbing and framing. We Boracare'd the exterior log cabin walls, we pulled off all the black plastic as well as the gozillion staples that had been holding the black plastic, we filled in all the crevices around the windows and doors and sealed up all the electrical holes, and we began laying tile in the bathroom.

What we didn't do was get mauled by a bear.

It rained Thursday night and when we awoke the next morning we received our first confirmation that there really are bears in them thar woods. Everyone keeps telling us about them but up till now, it's been like the Loch Ness monster: a fictitious thing that you sometimes think you WANT to believe is out there, but you can neither confirm nor deny their existence based on the evidence.

And so you go on with your life. But just to be sure, you don't go swimming in Loch Ness.

We now have bear evidence. A surprisingly large mud cast of a paw.

Does this mean we should give up hiking? When we vacationed in Alaska, we didn't let the threat of bears bother us. We did take precautions though. We made sure we didn't get between a mama and her cub. We kept our distance in the Kenai River where they fished for salmon. And we wore bear bells while hiking. And talked really loud. We did our research and knew what to do if/when we encountered a grizzly.

This situation is no different. Forewarned is forearmed. No; strike that. Forewarned is for keeping your arms.

So I googled "What do you do if you see a black bear?" Presented below are the ACTUAL steps they recommend.

Number One: Stop what you are doing and evaluate the situation.

Too late to stop what I'm doing. Number One IS what I'm doing, and it's trickling down my leg this very minute. And evaluate the situation?? It sounds like the bear is receiving his mid-year  performance assessment. If that's Step One, I think the committee that came up with it should at least start the sentence with the prepositional phrase, "If you haven't already been mauled,..."

Number Two: Identify yourself.

"Me human."

To which the bear replies, "Well you were," and wipes his mouth with his paw. "You now lunch meat. Burp."

The rest of the steps seem kind of moot at this point. But just in case you're ever in the situation:

Number Three is: "Speak in an appeasing tone." You know, something like, "good bear."

Number Four is: "Back away slowly, preferably in the direction you came." Who needs to be told to not walk TOWARD the bear? I want to know what this person is doing in the woods AT ALL.

And Number Five is: "Walk, don't run, at all times keeping your eye on that bear." Because walking backwards in the forest is the best vantage point for watching your intestines spill out.

I truly hope to see every living thing that calls Cold Mountain home, from the turkeys and chipmunks and birds  and mice and bats to the wild things that roar their terrible roars, and gnash their terrible teeth, and roll their terrible eyes, and show their terrible claws like in Maurice Sendak's children's book entitled, Where the Wild Things Are. I welcome you all. And I do hope to see the bears.

But maybe from the porch.

I'm calling it low-grade depression.

Like a C- on the paper you turned in, thinking you did pretty all right, only to be told that your hard work was not even really average. My depression is like that; nothing spectacular or eyebrow-raising, which, actually, makes me more depressed to think about. If you're going to do something, do it really well, right?! Be the best depressed person you can be!

This is my life we're talking about though. Not a school paper. And I'm tired.

The house has been on the market for 3 months now. We've lowered the price several times already and are struggling to understand why somebody has not snatched this jewel up.

We've gotten comments like: "I love the floors!" and comments like: "The floors are a definite drawback." Some people say it's not big enough. Others say it's too large.

OK. I get that people have different tastes. But this is our home. This is The House where we had Easter egg hunts when the kids were little. This is The House where we hosted Hillbilly Halloween and I put on a most-embarrassing clogging demonstration for 2 of our closest friends. This is The House That PW and Lisa Built, if you'll pardon the reference to Randolph Caldecott's poem. And the rest of you egg-timers out there shopping for your dream home just need to get a clue.

Of course even I can hear the masked anger in my low-grade depression. But it is also pure exhaustion.

Do you know how difficult it is to keep a home in "show" shape? Especially if you're the kind of person who thinks a nice layer of dust actually protects wood surfaces? I've been on my knees a lot, and not all of it has been in prayer. Sometimes you just have to get down in the weeds and we've had 3 months of constant weeding.

Meanwhile, work on our other home continues. Yea! More work! And this time, there's no indoor toilet!

We're making progress though. We finished the electrical wiring on our last trip. That means we're ready for a major inspection, which should take place this week. All the framing is done, and the septic tank is in. This weekend we'll be sealing around windows and staining the exterior logs. It's hard work, but rewarding.

After all, I do love a story. And stories are like a bear hunt: you can't go over it, you can't go under it. You have to go THROUGH it. (Cue Girl Scout campfire...)

We're certainly going through it. But years from now I will still remember the "High Five" PW and I gave each other when every single outlet had been wired and stripped and clipped and rolled up in its respective little blue box, ready for the critical eye of the inspector. I will remember my husband's wide grin when he told me,  "We make a great team!" I will remember sitting in my bathing suit on a folding chair in the rain, letting Mother Nature rinse the layer of dirt and sweat off me. I will remember watching the Perseid Meteor Shower in a moonless midnight sky at our place on Cold Mountain where there is no light pollution. I will remember PW and I saying simultaneously, "A SHOOTING STAR!"  I will remember the cute little mouse who currently keeps us company, and the neighbors who beep their horns and wave to us. I will remember the first male goldfinch at the feeder, and the hummingbirds that buzz the tops of our heads on their way to the nectar we put out. And those crazy, retarded black and yellow bees with helicopter wings that we have yet to identify.

And I'll remember the family who comes along--finally--and in God's good time, and buys our precious home. And I'll remember, even though it hasn't happen yet, how we sat across from them at the closing table, listening to them tell us how much they love our home, and how afraid they were that we wouldn't accept their offer. That thought, more than any other, raises that low-grade depression to at least a B+.