I have reached that point in packing where half the stuff is packed, the other half is in chaos, and the thought of donating the lot to Goodwill and starting from scratch is tempting. The Cowardly Golden and I are leaving the Mountain House in a little over a week. Another door is closing, another window opening, and every day I miss this place a bit more, even as I look forward to our next home.
The move sort of came out of the blue. I had expected to get to spend another cycle of seasons up here, among the ponderosa and elk and deer with attitude, but like so much in life, plans changed. I will miss the bugling at dusk in the fall, as the elk gather around the house; the turkeys that randomly run across the road or down the driveway; the scent of the ponderosa as the wind howls over the mountaintop; the backyard prairie that seems to change day by day. I will not miss waking up to 5 feet of snow covering the world’s longest driveway, or the psycho robin that enthusiastically attacks the house, or the deluge of spiders constantly trying to move in. (Ok, so maybe I’ll miss that bird a little bit.)
It’s funny how entwined beginnings and endings can be. That starting one thing often comes at the expense of ending another. But then, if we never ended anything, how could we learn to appreciate what we have.
And now I’m descending into sentimental greeting card territory, which never goes wells.
So, farewell to the Mountain House. It’s been a lovely abode this past year and a half, and will no doubt make an equally lovely abode for the next family who calls this place home. As for me and Bailey, it’s time for us to begin a new adventure.