Why am I so restless?
The snow is falling outside my window, my coffee and baked french toast sit beside me. There’s a funny little gray squirrel digging up my crocus bulbs in the front yard. He’s a messy eater; after he scrambles up the bare dogwood tree and sits himself down in a crook, he nibbles and turns that little morsel, dropping as much as he gets in his mouth. Once he dropped the whole bulb back down to the ground and was obliged to run back down the tree for more. I’m not sure if he found the piece he dropped or if he just dug himself a new one.
My brain continues to turn to mush. I blame it on the number of how-to books I read, so I’m fighting back with Hamlet. I was in Hamlet once; the Player Queen. I have whole sections of the play memorized. I can tell you what it’s about but I don’t remember the details at all. I barely have any idea of the flow or continuity of the story. So, I’m re-reading.
The boys are getting ready to run some errands with Daddy: groceries and library. And when they get home they’re going “camping” in the attic. They are all very excited about the fun day they have planned and it’ll give me a little time and space to clean the house before the showing we have tomorrow.
If you haven’t gathered from the hints I’ve been dropping, our house is for sale. I feel a little guilty about not loving this place as much as I think it should be loved. It’s Wendell Berry’s fault. He simultaneously makes me want to have a place that I love as much as he loves his place in Kentucky, and makes me feel guilty for not blooming where I’ve been planted. I mean, shouldn’t I love this place? Even with its imperfections, it has been home and that should be worth something – especially because it is a charming seventy-eight year old house with a beautiful stone fireplace and wide woodwork around the windows and doors; it’s the first house I’ve ever owned; it’s the house in which my husband was a child; it’s in a beautiful and safe neighborhood; the neighbors are friendly and watchful but not at all nosy (well OK, that one lady is nosy, but in a very funny eccentric kind of way). This house has seen birth and death, though I’m not supposed to tell people that, because apparently some potential buyers might be freaked out by the fact that life has happened here.
But the place just doesn’t suit our lifestyle. The excellent public schools are wasted on homeschoolers, the small yard is lovely for picnicing and parties and for small children and pets, but it is not big enough for all of that AND the digging site my boys insist on AND a large vegetable garden, and it’s not big enough for chickens even if the village allowed them. Plus, we’ve begun to feel that a mortgage is more debt than we’d like to have. An ideal situation for us would be a house and a little land we can pay for outright or pay off quickly. Long Island is not that place.
The kids are out now, the snow is falling in earnest, and I’ve wasted too much time trying to get these pictures uploaded. Thanks for visiting. I’m off to do my work.