“To feel at home, stay at home.” –Clifton Paul Fadiman
In a feeble attempt to ignore my grief, I dove into setting up my new home. Thankfully, my dad and my brother stayed with me a week to help me unpack, install new flooring, build shelving, and fix all sorts of little oddities in my house. We painted four rooms to help me transform this house from someone else’s into mine. We spent almost three weeks with no furniture on the main floor of our house, which made the whole house feel rather uninviting. After shopping at every furniture broker here, we settled on something for our living room, and finally, I began to feel that just maybe, we live here. Even though I rather like my house, I’m still shocked every time that I leave and find myself in here, rather than just a little ways down the road from Columbia. I’ve taken comfort in our double ovens, thankful that I can make an entire batch of cookies in 15 minutes. Of course, all of this comfort food has caused Matt and I both to develop a little comfort weight as well. I vacillate between hoping to find all the wonders of this place and feeling that I’m doomed to slowly and unhappily turn into a hillbilly. I can’t stand the thought, being drenched in overalls and country music, smoking cigarettes and using phrases like “fixin’ to” and “put the kibosch on.” Outside of my house, this is a foreign country.