I haven’t really had a weekend to myself in my new place. I moved just a few weeks after school started. This has been my fifth move in six years. I can’t seem to keep grounded.
The gypsy life has landed me into some pretty intense spaces, each one representing a brief chapter in my life. My new place, my little trailer in the woods, has been my favorite chapter so far.
I thought I would hate it here. I didn’t think I could make this place feel like home, but it’s the most at home I’ve felt in any of my other places.
I didn’t have a lot of options. I was living in a very small house with an unstable person. He was manipulative, unsympathetic, and an alcoholic to boot. I literally took the first available rental in my modest budget. A 1970’s trailer in the country.
It took me a minute to get over the carpet squares and the paneling. The faux brick wall paper in the bathroom was not exactly easy on the eyes, nor was the banana yellow bathtub. But soon I realized that the place had character for days. The gold plastic lights, tucked away in fake paneled ceiling beams bring me back to childhood memories in the smoke filled bowling alley with my mom. There is no better feeling than showering in the sunlight that pours into my very own shower window. I love falling asleep to the rhythm of rain drops tapping on my tin roof. I threw a rug over the carpet squares.
I basically won the real estate lottery with a property line that runs along the neighbors pasture full of pot bellied pigs. The view doesn’t get any cuter.
We have deer grazing in our yard every morning when I leave for work. We can hear coyotes screaming as they chase prey down the nearby river bed at night. I grew up on forty acres of woods, with a pond and river access. This feels like home to me.
It’s amazing how your perspective can change. About houses, about people, about life.