The old garage reminds me of those nightmare teeth photos that the dentist shows you to get you to buy braces and whitening veneers. You know the ones I’m talking about. Bad teeth. Bad gums. And although it’s only an image, you can almost smell the halitosis. Whenever I see those photos, I think that those bad teeth are probably the least of the owner’s problems. The same is true of this roomy but rickety garage. Structural problems. A schizophrenic foundation. The foundation literally has two ideas of where it wants to go. The east half has decided to plunge toward the roots of Mount Sentinel. The west wants to follow the Lewis and Clark Trail to the Pacific Ocean. There’s no convincing them to get along. Still, like the guy who finds his hideous teeth profoundly humiliating, we decided to opt for the pricey-but-ultimately-useless surface treatment. He’s still grinding his teeth nightly, thanks to his heavy meth addiction. We’re stuck with a garage that only remains standing because of nine (count them, nine) posts arranged under its ridiculous roof trusses. But at least it looks pretty now.



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