After three days of driving, during which Abigail the kitten and I were beset by snowstorms and icy roads, I made it to my new abode in Fly Creek, New York. By the time I got off the well traveled roads, the sky was darkening rapidly and I was more than a little nervous. When I got to the house, Brett had left the light on, but, not counting the pets, I was alone. In the dark. In the cold (the heat was out). Surrounded by forests and fields.

There was no phone service at the house. There was no internet connection. I've never felt more isolated than I did that first night, waiting for Brett to get back from Austin.

The whole reality of what I had done was terrifying. There had been no room for doubt; for weeks I did not allow myself to second guess the decision I had come to so painstakingly for fear that someone would see my worry and talk me out of it. I wanted to come here and do this "adventure" thing and, having arrived, I had to either tough it out or collapse into a puddle of directionless emotions. I unpacked and cleaned and did whatever I could to take my mind off my insanity.

Once I finally unpacked the car, I drove back down the road until I got cell reception (There is none at the house. Or anywhere nearby, apparently.) and immediately pulled to the side of the road, punched the flashers, and called my parents. I felt that night like I did at slumber parties, or gone away to camp: trying to be brave and focus on the excitement, but not quite confident enough to not feel desperately, horribly homesick.

I fell asleep on the couch, waiting for Brett to get back, and when he did, another person in the house made everything so much easier. No longer alone, it was easier to be happy about the move and to enjoy the chance to do whatever I wanted with my time. I baked cookies and planned a cheap grocery list and knitted and sewed. I drove around and looked for someone to hire me part time, discovering, again, that I lack the self confidence necessary to believe that anyone should hire me or would even want to. Logically, I know I rock. Emotionally, it's much less certain. But I picked up application after application to jobs I'm extremely overqualified for. Until I finally got up the nerve to walk in to Portabello's, where, after I made a joke about pirates, they offered me a job on the spot. The restaurant is very nice and the family who runs it is delightful. I like going to work there, though I'm still learning just about everything I need to know to do my job well. It's only been a week. I'll pick it up.

The pictures I have for you are of the house and surrounding land. (Taken from the comfort of the now warm house)

The view upon walking in the front door. Two bedrooms off to the right, one of which is mine. Rest of the house is off to the left, starting with a mudroom with the door to the basement and the sliding glass doors to the back porch.



A little further is the kitchen and what we've made into the dining room. Off to the left there is what may someday be a sitting room. As you can see, there is a pool table there now. It is not ours and was not supposed to be there. It's a pain.


From the corner of what may someday be the sitting room. Complete with prowling Abby.


From the foot of the stairs looking back towards living room. Upstairs is Brett's room. It has a deck and a jacuzzi, but no heat vents. It is therefore very cold most of the time.

From the window at the foot of the stairs the view to the front yard is thus:


And the back yard looks like this:


(The stone thing is a huge firepit. I like marshmallows and hotdogs.)

Chester is looking out the window in the pool table room.


And this is what he sees:

That's Brett and Honus, at the edge of the yard. The steel garage thing is not on the property, but just barely. The "road" next to it is the property line.


Maybe someday I can train Honus not to bolt when he's outside and we won't have to leash him for walks, but I'm still working on it.

Every time I'm out for a drive I see things I want to show you all. My midwestern experience with farmland is that the road is straight and the farm houses/barns/etc are set pretty far back from the roads. Here, the road takes the path of least resistance around the hills and often splits farmsteads right in half with the house and garage on one side and the barn and other outbuilding on the other. One pretty white Georgian farmhouse with a wrap around porch has a large molding around the front door, wide enough on the lintel that they set a row of pumpkins over the top of the door.

In summation: I'm here, safe, employed, and now, finally, blessedly, connected to the internet.