Journal: Notes from the Glamper

Been up since 3:45. Time bends and moves mysteriously lately.

The girl, sleeping next to me, coiled up in a tight, furry ball against the cold, is mostly silent and does not account for the rhythmic sounds I hear faintly wafting through the woods. No, it is the hoot of an owl, a pair. Back and forth they call, warding off predators, establishing their territory. I lay still and listen in the night. Smiling in the dark, grateful.

Though a mile away, I can hear the herd up the road. In the still pre-dawn, their lows travel across their meadow, the corn fields and the dirt road, down the causeway and through the open window of our latest home.

During a recent check-up with my general practitioner, my answer to a routine health screening question gave her pause. “Seven”? Yes, in the last 18 months, I, we (Robert and the pets and I) will have lived in seven places. It seems impossible, but it’s true. Thorpe Cove, Charleston, Southwind Cottage and Beach House, both at Basin Harbor, Charleston again, Shirley’s AirBnB Hellscape, the Glamper (from where I write now), and then finally and hopefully in the next few months — our new Vermont home.

Five tons of fun

As the renovation drags on, at least there is this tiny oasis, all 420 square feet of it. With R away in London these past weeks, I’ve had a chance to settle in by myself. Sort out the septic, the stove, the stabilizers, the… everything. Though a bracing 58° inside when I woke this morning, I consider my latest transition a success. Pets are happy, fridge is full, we can pull 4 PBS channels off the antenna. Though not without a few hiccups (see below), we’ll make the best of our tiny, tiny house but dream of the day ‘the big house’, lucky #7, is ready for its next occupants.

No, there were never bedbugs, but I hope the bastard is itching anyway