Walt and I are finally cleaning out the basements (yes, that’s a plural); and the over-stuffed three-car garage; and the attics (again, the plural); and all of the closets; and each of the seven, count them, seven bedrooms. I’m not following Marie Kondo’s famous process, I’m just bagging the shit up and dragging it to the dumpster.

What with us living over half the year in Ireland these days, our kids long gone, it just doesn’t make sense for us to keep this enormous house.  We’re doing more than flirting with down-sizing, we’re taking massive action towards that end.

But, the biggest problem I’m facing, beyond Walt weeping every time he comes across a Plaster-of-Paris hand print, is getting the goddamned school bus out of my back yard.

To be more accurate, the five ton vehicle is buried in the woods just behind the tree house and a four-foot-tall pile of detritus.

To make matters worse, all of the tires are flat, and the engine wouldn’t roll over if Jesus himself gave it a jump start.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from watching the Hampton boys in action, where there’s a will, there’s a way. They are, to a one, the most tenacious lot I have ever laid eyes on.

Which got me thinking.

Where there’s Craig’s list, and the promise of a FREE HIPPIE BUS, there’s a seventeen-year-old boy who will solve my problem for me. I’ve met five candidates so far who have come to scope out the project. And I’m banking on one of them to brave the tree house, and the detritus, and the new layer of snow, and the thorns, and the hill that must be conquered before reaching the driveway. I’m so banking on them. Otherwise, I’m going to have to come up with a rather compelling reason why a buyer would want my school bus, and I’m just not that inventive.

If you’d like to read how the bus ended up here in the first place, just click here.

In the mean time, if you’d like a FREE HIPPIE BUS, I know just where you can get one. Call me.