Why would a man as young as I am purchase a house as old and worn and tired as this? How lowly must a man value his time to adopt a responsibility so unflaggingly constant? How lonely? Nothing here will appreciate. There is no return from day to day.
But it is mine. Undeniably mine. It was a bank’s since ‘37. It has claimed no co-owner since ‘97. Foreclosure did nothing for its prospects. Nor did 20 years of unabated rot. A year ago last week, cash in hand, I robbed the desperation of the bank at a bargain price. For a year I’ve managed the consequences with a steady determination.
The house is tiny, which is a blessing. It is tucked into a little ravine, which is not. A creek too small for a swimming hole or to hold any fish of much interest keeps everything nice and damp. Large trees overhanging the tin roof and mountain laurel crowding the exterior ward off the drying rays of the sun. Watery green contagion creeps up from the creek onto the old foundation that was set with rocks from the same creek so many years ago. The moss would consume the new wood siding in no time without weekly attentions.
It is best to tend fires all year, even in the hottest months of summer. A cookfire in the kitchen keeps things relatively dry inside and keeps electricity bills nominal. Kerosene lamps do the same. The springhouse negates the need for a refrigerator and my mildewed library, a television. The dead end county wires could be removed almost without notice.
With little need for diversion or company and a sustaining contract for one piece a week, I only hike the four miles into town on Tuesdays, type up and email my work in the public library, and buy the few provisions needed to make it to the next Tuesday. This life affords me much time to spend in and around the house tending to its particular needs.
I find it best to sweep every day and to dust often. Keeping every surface clean and corners without spider webs ensures a sterility that discourages tiny house guests. Weekly I empty my closets, dressers, and drawers to air them out, scrub them down, and repair any possible holes and cracks that could cause problems. Of course, food must be stored airtight. All of these steps keep critters outside.
I’ve met few millennials in these parts who would be willing to live the way I do. Probably none in the city when I was in school. Responsibility is not the most popular virtue of my generation. Loneliness is not something easily accepted by anyone of any generation who has not succumbed to it slowly over many disappointing years. The acuteness of my self-imposed experiences has mollified what would otherwise be fairly unpleasant. I believe my life is distinct and characterized by what I am able to tolerate.
I figure there is one trick to living this life with any sense of contentment. By the time you lift your head off the pillow in the morning, you have to have already accepted what you know the day will be like. No hope or expectation for major differences or improvements. You know what you need to do. You do what you need to do. You return to bed tired from what you’ve done. That alone is enough to pass many days, seasons, and eventually, years.