My world took a big – and largely unexpected turn – at the beginning of December, when we closed on our bid on a house in a fishing village in Downeast Maine. Frankly, I didn’t expect the seller to accept our offer, but the housing inspector we engaged before that produced a long list of essential issues to address, even before we get to any renovations that play into our modest dreams.
Since then, I haven’t had much time to reflect on the whirlwind, much less post on the developments, and a lot of the fallout probably won’t start appearing here on the blog until next year, in part because I’m also submerged in another big and very timely writing project. Yes, you’ll be hearing about that, too.
It’s also meant getting down to seriously thinning our possessions, which wouldn’t all fit in our new abode – not without a barn for storage, especially. That’s been a rough and emotional passage, with so many things tied to memories or unfulfilled aspirations. At least I’d been working through my stuff over the past several years – decollecting, as I’ve said – but a lot had nevertheless been tucked in securely and left untouched till now. It’s more of a cliffhanger for my wife.
And then there’s the matter of getting our home of 21 years on the market. We bought the place as a fixer-upper, not that we had much to choose from, and now I’m having to face the reality that after a small fortune in upgrades, it still needs tons of work. I hope the new owners are up for that.
So I’ve been spending much of my time in one of the one hundred easternmost houses in the nation, getting a better feel for the place and a few things under control, with enough commutes back to Dover that I could have driven to San Diego instead, except that I never got further west than just over the border into New Hampshire.
Whew! It’s all happening much faster than I’d anticipated.
Even at my age.