THERE’S NO PLACE LIKE HOME REVISITED

You will never guess where I am right now, dear reader. Go ahead, try…

Well, I’ll tell you. I am, at long last, after what has been a very long search, at my desk, in my office, within the house that the wife and I bought. Yes, we are finally, officially, and fully moved in – though being unpacked is a rather different question.

Yes, dear reader, the process that began some two hundred and twenty-four days ago has at long last resulted in a house. Thus I sit here in my office – one that is not simultaneously a living room, guest bedroom, or an entrance hall – typing away while drinking a freshly brewed cup of coffee made in a kitchen that does not, in fact, double as the primary hallway for passage through the domicile. If I wanted to I could at this very moment get up from my chair and venture into any one of a vast number of rooms – though I do not wish to sound braggadocious about the size of my abode. I could do this, but, for the moment I choose to not; I, of my own free will, have decided to spend some time here in this corner room with the window overlooking the lovely tree in the front yard.

This, dear reader, is the miracle of our new house. At last there are choices; rooms can have distinct functions and I have a greater range of places to be than the much simpler – though less satisfying – duality of that small apartment in which one could be in “this room” or “the other room.” This afternoon I revel in the tangible possibility of walking through either of the study’s doors and exploring any number of pathways and permutations through our home. I have already spent small handfuls of moments just sitting right over there in the comfy chair by the window with my feet up on the mismatched ottoman contemplating alternate routes from one spot to another.

But, this has come at a price. No, I am not referring to the mortgage payments that will perpetually follow along with the shiny set of keys. The more immediate price is the battering and bruising that accompanied the process of moving in. What you are looking at below is only one example of the more than a dozen bruises that are covering vast swaths of my body. Arms, legs, hips, and back; no part of me has been spared its share of physical abuse. Last night, as the final bits of moving lay before the wife and me, I finally had to submit, to give in to the pain and admit defeat. Last night I finally collapsed in a heap on the old apartment’s circular driveway amidst the bugs, leaves, and squashed walnuts fallen from a nearby tree – an act that in normal circumstances would have filled me with abject horror. After a final effort to unload one last van-full of possessions I was left on the couch to lay stricken with ice-packs on both knees and both ankles while the wife completed a final run to the apartment to collect the stray items and give it a fairwell cleaning.



But, as I sit here and contemplate a somewhat awkward and painful trip down the stairs to the kitchen to freshen-up this cup of coffee that is sitting there with just a few sips remaining, I must admit that these cuts, scratches, and bruises accumulated over a week of hefting and hauling are well worth it, and that I rather think I shall enjoy this house – at least until January…