Twenty long months ago, I stood in my cavernous new home stacked floor to ceiling with moving boxes. I remain certain the moving team was glad to be rid of me and my stuff.
I had a lot. For a 1450-square-foot townhome that is.
But for a 3300-square-foot home? I was positively a minimalist.
Thirty-three years in one location will do that to one. I was and am far from a packrat, but I still had my stuff, my treasures, my collections. My shoes. Once I had relocated to a small, quaint coastal town in Northern Virgina, I could finally enjoy my stuff.
Backstory: My partner and I had flown back to this essentially his hometown, where he had lived for many years before retiring from being an assistant fire chief in a nearby city. He had come out to me in California to continue our nearly 20 year long distance relationship. We weathered COVID and the lockdown well together, even though my home was very small. We managed. We always have.
Vacationing back in his hometown, we decided to look around. The plan had always been to relocate out of toxic Silicon Valley at some point. I wanted clear skies, minimal traffic, kinder, real people and peace. I wanted peace most of all. I knew I could work remotely so what was I waiting for?
That decision happened the minute I saw it. My forever home. Coastal, neatly built, modern to a fault on the inside with — my lifelong dream — a walk-in pantry and five, count them, five bedrooms and an office. Huge shower, room for my entire family to visit. A backyard that was hedging in at just under a spacious acre. It would soon become known as The Enchanted Forest.
We had made a couple of half-hearted offers before this but this one felt different. I wanted this home. This was meant to be my home; I could feel it in my bones.
We negotiated, gingerly this time. My partner had lived here for many years and knew about the flooding although my soon to be forever home was on the non-flooding side of town. Still, the dirt and pebbly road that led to paradise, it had to be upgraded. We wanted a real road leading up to our driveway. To our utter astonishment, the seller (also the builder) agreed.
He built us a road. And such a road it was, about 600 feet, going razer straight back, tapering off at the sides to allow runoff for the inevitable rains that would surely come. It terminated neatly into our cement driveway. Black asphalt into the white cement. A juxtaposition of the many dichotomies that I would soon experience.
Welcome to paradise and the house behind.
the house behind 