Moving here has been like pulling on an old, favorite sweatshirt that had been forgotten in the back of the closet. It’s a bit tattered, the picture on the front is a ghost of its former self, and one cuff has a rather large hole in it, so you wonder if you should just move on. But then you pull it on, and yes, now you remember why it was your favorite. It wraps around you just right, and even the signs of age, at first unslightly, now only add to its personality. This is how it’s been moving into this little, stone house.
It took a month, including a detour back to my childhood home due to an electrical issue in the kitchen, but now the boxes are gone and we are home.
It’s cozy and tiny and old. The rooms are filled with a jumble of old furniture, while many of the walls must wait for the arrival of power tools before they can be decorated, thanks to thick, plaster walls that laugh in the face of hammer and nails. Oil lamps sit on a few surfaces, waiting to be put into use. The books are slowly but surely migrating to every flat surface – really, they’re worse than dust bunnies – and each hour sounds with the tones of an old, regulator clock, less chimes and more thunks, as though auditioning for a part in Burt’s one man band at the beginning of Mary Poppins.
Outside, the air often smells of hops. There’s a large porch that anticipates being lavished with jack-o-lanterns come October, and a blue door equally excited about an evergreen wreath come December. And there is a free standing mailbox – a dream come true after a lifetime of multiunit boxes a block or two away.
Next door, there’s a mostly abandoned cottage straight out of Grimm’s Fairy Tales; mostly abandoned, as someone still cares enough to have a light come on each evening, giving the appearance of it still being a home. The yard is overgrown and the mailbox sits empty, and in the evening, you half expect to see a shadowy figure peering back at you from the attic window. It has a story to tell, but the curtained windows and locked door suggests it is one only told to friends, and we are still too much of strangers.
This little, stone house is a bit tattered and old, but I can tell it will be a favorite.