My landlady lived in this house for many years; first with her partner and after they divorced she began renting out the spare rooms to grad students. When she first showed me the house last spring, she was weepy at the thought of leaving it at all, moving in with her new mate in Columbus, abandoning the house she put so much effort into (it was uncomfortable). But, really, it'd be remiss to say that she's abandoned this house because vestiges of her old life are everywhere, driftwood and fossils and weird hippie art still adorn the windowsills and mantel. The basement houses backpacking equipment, tents, and a banana seat bike among many, many other odd things. Because she and B are old friends, she feels comfortable occasionally "dropping by" on a weekend to gather up some of her things that have suddenly become necessary and commit random acts of yardwork. At times, it feels very much like I'm crashing at an estranged great aunt's house: so impermanent, and I'm hesitant to move any little baubles and trinkets around.
Because this is my first (last, but first) year living in this place, the changing of the seasons keeps taking me by surprise. Surprised by sugar maple set aflame overnight in pink leaves last fall. Surprised by the view of the hills from my bedroom once the trees in the backyard lost all their leaves. Today I returned to Athens to find hyacinths, tulips, and daffodills lining the front yard and what appears to be asparagus and rosemary keeping a toehold on the steep face of the side yard.
I feel like I'd have to live here for several years to really know this place at all. Still, driving back today, I was negativity and dread on four wheels, wanting anything but to stay for another three months in this godforsaken town.
Surprise produce is enough to snap me out of a sour mood. Hello, asparagus. I will broil you with lemon juice and olive oil and eat you in front of the TV.
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