Until the recent invasion of our neighborhood by out-of-state investors who cram four or five college-aged renters into their properties, we'd achieved a pleasant rhythm at our house. Already nostalgia overwhelms as we pack a bit each evening and talk about what we're going to move, sell, give away, or throw out. For the first time in a decade I'll miss our azaleas blooming, followed in short order by the crocuses, the tulips, the irises, the roses. The birds who drop by every spring to pick through our mulch beds on their route north will perhaps be unappreciated this coming March. It's a delightful cacaphony every year. I think Old Will used to put out a great deal of seed to attract them. I always forget until they arrive, then I throw handfuls of seed out the window onto the patio. Yesterday it dawned on me that the balled blue spruce Xmas tree we bought from Sluggo at Mason Dixon farms our first year in the house is now over 8 feet tall. It's funny how I never really saw that tree until I knew we were leaving, despite looking at it every day. I wish we could dig it up and take it along with us.
We're in a crunch. We have to vacate by the 28th of February, and have yet to even put in a bid on a new house. We might need to load up a storage bin for a few days and live in the in-laws' basement if we encounter trouble buying. It's a tremendously exciting situation, however. Rhythms make for cozy living, and comfortable, familiar digs can't be beat. But nothing is more refreshing than casting off the rusty irons of complacency--that's why I like to travel so much. We're taking a big risk right now, and it makes me want to take even bigger risks, like selling all our shit and spending two years in the Peace Corp with a wad in the bank, or spending two years traveling, or taking our capital gains and dropping them on a roulette table in Vegas.
We have no idea where we'll be in six weeks. Whooo!