Home.

It has been some time since I have written. Oddly enough, I have been consumed with everything involving my home. Not long ago, an opportunity arose for me to live in a very nice house despite my limited income. Initially, I was skeptical--- there had to be a downside, there had to be something wrong, something weird, some sleaziness. Yes, the rent was affordable… too good of a deal… what was the catch? Did I have to join a cult? Were there hidden cameras recording me at all times? Did I have to be someone’s sex slave? Accepting the concept that people in the world had goodness in them, wanted to help complete strangers, had kindness and interest in using their own good fortune to toss a few rocks of stability into someone else’s foundation… it was exhilarating as well as unnerving.

Living in a lovely house gives one a distinct joy akin to being gussied up for a special occasion or driving a fancy automobile. There is excitement in the experience itself. There may be a sense of ignis fatuus with the flighty whirling keeping one grinning though it is illusory to others and self. When telling friends of my new living arrangements, I have described myself as a Clampett, a clumsy twirl of dewy eyes, gingham and pigtails, hollerin’ for the critters to gather round and head over to the cee-ment pond. It is without doubt the nicest residence I have lived, and I still feel a bit the intruder, a houseguest who has brought all personal belongings. As I arrange furniture and color walls, hang art and cultivate plants, it is beginning to feel as if it might be okay for me to stay here, that maybe I do belong if only temporarily. Working room by room to infuse identity has been enjoyable, an outlet for creativity and expression done upon an exceedingly large canvas. I possess a few highly girly aspects: my toenails must always be painted a whimsical color; with flowers, I tend with a nurturing daintiness; I revel in coquetry and courtship; and, interior decorating is both a mission and delectation for me. I love making a house pretty. When I’m describing “my vision”, I have a confident panache, and I actually become somewhat swishy. Okay, maybe that’s not girly as much as dandyish.

I’m not sure how much “things” add to the feeling of home. I like things, but I have spent the last few years purging: lessening my possessions, restricting my buying, limiting items which required extreme care and caution. It was a penurious purification, one of both necessity and choice. I had read The Good Life by Helen and Scott Nearing, as well as Voluntary Simplicity by Duane Elgin, and I was implementing aspects into my life, frugality with the ultimate long-term goal of sustainable living. All of my owned items fit comfortably into about 500 square feet of living space. I was far from miserable; in fact, I felt a sense of release. I didn’t worry about anyone breaking into my home and stealing; I fretted more about the thieves’ disappointment. I drove a beater of a car and left the doors unlocked at all times, not just because the locks didn’t always allow entry, but also because it was 20 years old and if someone wanted it that badly, hey, have at it. Most of my clothes were purchased at resale shops located in fancy neighborhoods; used music and books were new to me; brand loyalty rarely played a factor for any merchandise; I patted myself atop the head with each act of transcending materialism and bringing Walden Pond to me and with me. And then… I got me this big ol’ fancy-pants house. What to do, what to do? Succinctly, I figuratively flipped off simple living, Thoreau, New World Order Utopia, et al, and I bought stuff. Since I could not go entirely full-throttle against my 40-year belief system, virtually nothing I purchased was new, nor was it expensive. Utilizing Craigslist and my alter-sprite, the Googling wunderkind, I was able to secure a number of nice items for few dollars. There was a need to fulfill the intentions of my house’s rooms. Without a dining table and chairs, it wasn’t a dining room and there could be no dining; it was a sad empty room with a chandelier hung centered and low, swaying woefully with each puff of air through the windows come. Perchance my nocturnal circumstance of airy-fairy affected my sighting of the ghost of Lord Byron, recumbent and listless, his curly locks and poofy shirt speckled with fuzzy carpet fibers, lamenting the lack of board and seat and thus, the privation of sumptuous banquet… And that was just one room.

Quandaries abounded. Living arrangements, for instance, have always been troubling. Christian Morgenstern, a German author, poet, and aphorist, stated that, “Home isn’t where our house is, but wherever we are understood.” If this is true, which I believe it to be, it is the reason why I’ve always preferred living alone. Often I have felt misunderstood, and rather than go through the process of explanation ad nauseam to others, I prefer to elucidate alone. Doing so rarely makes me irritable, and in fact, often allows creative furtherance or makes me sleepy-headed. My perfect living arrangement is with four-legged friends only; that is sufficient and enjoyable. Of course, human visitors are always welcome to come and go; eventually they leave and if they do not, I call the authorities to have them removed. The majority of the time, though, I’m quite fine alone. If I desire human companionship, I use the telephone, an amazing piece of electronic equipment that converts sounds into signals and back again. I am appreciative of this invention because it doesn’t require me to be showered, dressed or socially appropriate, and yet I can still feel connected to my loved ones. That device is sufficient for me. And, regarding casual conversation, my animals have distinct personalities and are rather vocal with their opinions. It is similar to normal interchanges. Frequently while getting dressed, I will ask my pets, “Does this go? I know it doesn’t match, but does it go?” I’m fine with their recommendations, which depending upon interpretation either makes me silly or daft. Now I must add that I do have a housemate, a very close friend of mine, and we are doing well at deciphering our synchronicity. Though she breathes and walks and talks, I am adjusting to having her in the house; and, though I am an antisocial ogre, she is adapting to my attempts at invisibility.

Joyousness in one’s home is often found in the nearly lost art of puttering. To muck about and tinker, touching this or rearranging that, is a fine mode of spending one’s idle time. Amblers are sometimes disrespected in our hurried society, which is unjust. To lollop through my home clipping dead leaves from plants, rearranging books and photo frames, sorting screws and nails, and meandering through minor home repairs and maintenance is not devoid of purpose. It is the placid ease of being soothingly afloat, the peace and pleasure of one’s stable surroundings, unhampered by the accelerated worry and onerous toil of being a denizen. That’s what home provides for us--- a place to safely putter. We love that. And, we need that. Another discovery: many have wondered why puttering retired men have one hand partially beneath their pants’ waistband. Due to medical anomalies beyond my control, now I know. They are holding in their hernias. Visit my home sometime: my carriage is that of a 70-year old Floridian, absent the socks and sandals.