I can't believe I was writing about moving three months ago. How does it still feel like a new and unfamiliar notion to me--something I'm sharing only now for the first time? It speaks to how many issues there are attached to the decision, and how conflicted I am.
I've found this adorable little red house in the woods. Cheapish, relatively speaking, for reasons I'll share. The main house was built in 1760, and the most recent owners, now deceased, added a pole barn to it in 1990, making it a livable size for a family of 3. It seems structurally sound, though the addition has its flaws--like the uneven floors between new and old. Amateur mistake. The floorplan is quirky; it'd take some thought to figure out how to overcome the feeling that it's really two houses with no relationship but a point of contact. Liam doesn't like the third bedroom--the one that would be his; it's under the eaves, and he thinks it's spooky. (There is that old-house energy in the old part. No question. You can almost feel the families that moved through it over the centuries. People with names like Lewis and Issac and Abel. I love this stuff. Got the history of ownership from the historical society.) Oh, and there's no kitchen. Literally. Somebody ripped out whatever kitchen there had been in the original house, and they put in the plumbing and electric for the kitchen in the new part of the house. But they ran out of steam or interest, or cash. I've lived in in-progress homes all my life in a family of builders. Can manage that.
The town has 3-acre zoning, and this property--most of it wild--is heavy with old trees, and the air is moist from the wetlands and the reservoir. I feel at peace there--something I haven't felt in years--though I'm privately wondering if I have the guts to take on the isolation. And the high taxes. What's the worst that could happen? I lose my job? Foreclosure? Hightail to a rental? People survive those things. I cast backwards in my life and think my greatest mistakes have always been acts of ommission. Acts of caution. This time I'm mining for courage.