Marsh and I are on the same page, more or less, as we half-jokingly brainstorm names for the new property in Troy, Maine.
The closing is tomorrow, and it will happen with or without us since we sent the paperwork on out of concern for a winter storm advisory. Gail, the lady handling our file, said that it all arrived today and was in order, which probably meant there would be no storm.
We drove up from Buxton this morning for a “final walk-through,” but the realtor misunderstood our email exchange and didn’t show up. When I called him, he gave us the lockbox code, so we were able to “walk through” without him. We also walked the property — in M’s case more extensively than she had before. She went as far as the deer stand, which is about at the midpoint of the 5 acres, and took some pictures of the far eastern end, which I’d neglected to do in February:
Even considering the known work, and accounting for probably many surprises, this find — this move — feels like a miracle. The minuses include idiosyncratic construction, absence of a heating system, absence of a kitchen, an extremely modest bathroom with an absurd camp-style shower stall, a “loft”-style 2nd floor with a toilet in the corner of a 24’x19′ room (which isn’t even hooked up properly), a porch which is open to the elements, unfinished plywood floors, warped paneled walls from “Masonite-R-Us,” multiple caches of junk and debris across the property (old collapsed sheds, a mattress, a couch, the aforementioned deer stand which consists of two tractor tires and a truck cap, a fridge, an ice-fishing hut, and about 20 old car tires)….
But the pluses include: A gorgeous remote setting, a sound foundation, frame, and chimney, existing electric service, a well, a stream (or two), and land — amply fit for the adventure we’re creating, ample for a garden, a windmill, our dogs, rabbits (for fiber), chickens (for eggs), bees, and a sustainable center from which we will produce our stories, paintings, novels, and other creations.
It’s our new center, the origin. I have a map of the world in my head, my personal geography, and the weight of “home” has been migrating northward during this process. Centreville (ironically) was never the center, or only temporarily so. The pull of gravity leads to Maine. I can’t explain this.