The average age of the Farm’s residents hovers around fifty, give or take. The place is home to all kinds of folks, all there for different reasons and on different paths in life. Whether or not a person can actually pay rent is rarely a factor in George’s practice of no questions asked and no money down. Through the combined graces of free internet classifieds and a fierce rental market, George’s spare rooms tend to stay occupied by anyone needing a place to stay for a while. And there’s always more where they came from.
Most continue on their way after a few unhinged months of pensive thought. Some have no idea why they’re there or where they’re going. And a few end up getting kicked out by the same man who gave them a chance in the first place. But when it comes to the Mooney Family Farm, the law of averages doesn’t apply – not when one opens the door to a generational gamut of hopeless indigents ranging in age from eight to eighty.
An announcement was made that an older gentleman was coming to the Farm. A man so old that George wondered out loud if a person could be even older than the oldest dirt. The announcement was re-announced numerous times over the next several weeks as the man’s arrival date kept being postponed. George grew impatient. The man’s room had been held open and remained empty – a room that could have been quickly filled in a flophouse with a waiting list.
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