Weird music from the woman upstairs who constantly spits from deep in her throat, then runs the water. Sneezes, too. All the time. All the freakin' time. (Truth be told, so does my husband. I don't care for that, either.) Sounds--the music does--like a soprano singing along with a Theremin.* Not exactly Beck or Sondheim. Not even Kate Bush. And I wonder why I felt as if I couldn't stay another day at the house.
Walking down the village streets, you feel cradled by the mountains that rise on all sides. Blue sky, indescribable light. Bliss. Beauty.
The house, though, that's the breeding ground for boogeymen. What are those new black specs on the floor? What's that sound I can't isolate 'cause the tree frogs outside are croaking for all they're worth?
Sleep. That's the problem. I don't sleep much. (Not here, either, owing to the fact that D pops out of bed like a slice of toast every work day at five.) At the house, I leave the lights on. Leave my clothes on. Wrap up in my blanket like a caterpillar in a cocoon.
There's also the matter of the shower. Not to sound like a spoiled suburban kid, but cold splash-baths lose their charm almost instantly.
In town, I'm alone, awkward. No one to balance me out. Not complaining, understand. So many people are alone all the time. Just not that many in that town.
Last time I stayed, I used my oven for the first time, prepared a brunch for two of my neighbors--the earthy man I mentioned, who did something I rarely see: kissed my mezuzah. (Mind out of the gutter, gentile friends! A mezuzah is a tiny box--OMG, there goes the sneezer again! Gesundheit, bitch!--containing a teeny version of the Torah and affixed to doors of Jewish houses. D didn't want religious items outside our home, so I was delighted when my stepfather offered to put up a mezuzah.)
Of course, I'd forgotten that these neighbors run a B&B. I'd be pitting my mediocre skills against professional breakfast chefs. Will spare the tedious details: the curdled cornbread batter and second half-burned batch; the spoiled cream and trip back to the store; the lousy timing born of inexperience. Some of the things turned out well (homemade cocoa, hand-whipped cream; sauteed potatoes...), as did the visit overall, I thought.
The retirement home was planning a hundredth birthday celebration for a popular resident, but I didn't stick around. The farmer's market started for the year, but I wasn't there. I drove south past the gorgeous scenery, sipping coffee and thinking, I don't care. I want to go home.
Now, of course, I'm thinking about my return, can't stop picturing the house, the town. It's like a Dorothy Parker verse I can't remember. What do you suppose could be the matter with me, anyway?
What are they doing up there? Photo: FreeRange Stock
*Hammering and drilling, too. Right now, in fact. What is this never-ending project?
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Comments
Still, I've come to think of the woods around here, the fields, the sounds of birds chirping and singing, the sounds of running water--those are the sounds of home. I occasionally hear the neighbors, but not too much. (I'm like you--intrusive sounds from the neighbors bother me)
This is a wonderfully reflective piece on the nature of home.
It's a second home. Most of the time, I live in an urban apartment with someone who refuses to consider moving! When I finally realized I was destined to spend my life here, I took what little money I'd saved for a down payment and made one--on a house just for me. As you see, however, that has not solved everything.
Many thanks, again, for your thoughtful response.
Suddenly, during the summer I could hear the crickets and frogs and all manner of creatures of the night. Neighborhood cats fighting with each other and with skunks, the damn train that comes through at ten o'clock each night and shakes the house like an earthquake. The strange sound of wooden floors and supports expanding and contracting with either the heat or the cold. During the winter, when the nights can get down to below zero, I can sometimes hear the windows cracking like rice krispies in milk as the gases between the panes contract.
Some noises I have yet to still identify, and I have called this house "home" for sixteen years.
Good post, "S". :-D
Thank you, Bill. So enjoyed what you had to say, and how you said it.
It stinks that you can always hear your upstairs neighbors, though not well enough to determine exactly what they're doing. My husband and I used to joke that our upstairs neighbors in our first apartment were bowling with frozen turkeys. What else could it be?
I hope that your new second home feels warm and welcoming soon.
D actually published a hilarious short story about what the upstairs neighbors could be doing. Will have to try and find it.
Oh, my: four! D is not "eager to greet the day" so much as a workaholic. Can you at least get back to sleep at that hour?