It took me a long time to be standing here, at this door, on this welcome mat. MY welcome mat. In the course of just a few years, I moved back to the Midwestern college town I’d done most of my growing up in, became a writer, left a marriage that was no longer an equal partnership, and then lived a few wickedly confused years divorcing, living with mom (eek!), living in an apartment, and struggling to find a place to call my own. That’s a run-on sentence, I know, but that was how my life was. I lived a run-on life.
With four boys and the shaky beginnings of a something most people refer to as “the rest of my life” (holy cow, I can’t even figure out how to get through today), there needed to be a place for it all to unfold. Somewhere I could leave my shoes under tables (a habit of mine), sew until I curse (a hobby of mine), and shovel dirt around the yard (a stress reliever of mine). I needed a place where my boys could yell, sleep, toss socks and spill milk. I needed a house. I needed a home.
I found one. Or it found me. Probably a little of both.
Either way (or both), in June of 2011, I turned the key to a 1930’s colonial revival cape cod cottage.
Now, in November 2011, I’m creating a blog to document a story that has only just begun—one that I suspect will involve a random and wonderful assortment of things, spray paint and late nights and wine on the porch and local history and shopping in flea markets. Welcome to my doorstep. Welcome to my home.