I was digging out of our carriage house. Well, not really digging out. It was just dusty, dirty. Okay, we can call it filthy. Over the years Carl used it as a shop for creating all of his wood-work artifacts: boat pieces, half models, boats (Evan and Carl built a 12? hour canoe and it's still hanging from the roof beams), half models, and more. Carl's dad, Dick, taught him that a garage was a shop. His dad built small home-built planes in their 2-car garage. My dad (also named Dick) said it was a house for cars and bicycles, and a few tools, just in case (although none of the tools were used, as I recall). So we've never had a garage for cars, unless my VW bug was getting an engine change-out. The carriage house gave Carl the perfect home for his hobbies. In fact, nobody could ever get any car into the building. No access. Carl was in heaven. That alone made the carriage house better than any of the garages he'd ever known. A reason to purchase the place. We had