High Shoals Falls Trail, South Mountains State Park, Connelly Springs, NC
It was a chilly Spring morning the first time I drove to Western North Carolina alone. A year later almost to the day, on a warm Spring morning, I pulled into the parking lot of the place I would call home. My car was filled with tubs that had traveled from Delaware to Baltimore to Florida and now, Morganton, North Carolina. I left everything in my car (even my phone!) and practically skipped across the parking lot to the door of my building. Building A. I punched in my 4-digit code and watched in anticipation as it yell-beeped at me and turned red. Ok. Surely it requires an * or an # that I was unaware of. I try several more times and at the end of all of these attempts, I am still on the outside of the door, looking in. I am still stuck.
Typically, I anticipate nothing will work out in my favor. I am not a hopeless person but more like someone who is hope adjacent. I’m not completely blown away when something good happens for me, but when inevitably Life starts Life-ing, I think there you are old friend, I’ve been waiting for you. But not this day. The sun was shining. I was in a great mood. I was not prepared. And because of this my immediate thought was not devastation and disappointment but well this a minor inconvenience! But that’s fine!
I thought it would be rectified in a few hours. I emailed my landlord, called my friend that lives in the area in case I needed to kill some time at her house and started walking downtown to one of the breweries.
I would not get into my apartment for 3 more days.
I don’t think my experience of starting over is particularly unique. I am incredibly lucky that I have so many people in my corner. Post divorce, I could have lived in several places, in several different states and would not have been made to feel like I was imposing. But there is this feeling—at least there was for me—that it is some grand moral failing that at 39 years old, when my best friend asks me what I want for Christmas, I say silverware and a cutting board and drinking glasses because I am a middle-aged adult who does not own any of those things.
Initially, “settling” for an apartment felt like I had failed too. My North Carolina dream was very specific. I would own a cottage less than 1000 square feet. I would have 1 million bird feeders. I would throw wildflower seeds with abandon to create a natural yard for birds and bees and butterflies. I would have a screened in porch. I would wake up to a mountain view and spin in my yard ala Julie Andrews in the Sound of Music, singing every morning about my favorite things. This was, of course, absurd because I can’t really sing, and I don’t like long skirts.
In reality, I came here for a few weeks, looked at one house to buy and signed the lease for this apartment a few days after I saw it. This was partially out of desperation; the purpose of that particular trip was to find a place to live, and I looked at this apartment a few days before I was set to leave but it was also because I could see myself here. Maybe not the me that wanted all of those dream things but the me that knew being in the mountains of North Carolina was more important than how many bird feeders I have. (To my delight and surprise, my one bird feeder is pretty busy these days.)
When I moved into my apartment for real, I had little more than my clothes. My cousin leant me an air mattress when I left her house in Florida and this was my bed for two weeks. I used tubs as my desk, (and still do currently), pushing them together at the beginning of the day and pushing them apart at the end so they don’t seem permanent.
I made what seemed like daily trips to Wal-Mart and Ollies as I tried to reconstruct a home—an area rug, chairs for my balcony (I have a balcony!), a cheap cube thing for my towels, another one for my clothes because I had given up on finding and thinking about hauling a real dresser. I splurged on a good mattress. I deflated that air mattress so fast.
My good mattress is still on the floor.
I bought a cheap pan because all of my kitchen stuff was weeks from arriving and I couldn’t just eat made to go, cold meals for a month. I made a cheeseburger one night and realized I didn’t have a spatula. I used a plastic knife and my finger to flip it.
On my previous trip, I impulsively bought a couch, and my dear local friend Hamilton shoved it into my storage unit. So, as I write this, I am sitting on something comfortable, using Empty Grey Tub and Clear Tub With Antique Dishes as my desk.
My TV sits on the floor. I had to borrow a screwdriver from my neighbor to attach the feet.
A week ago, my car broke down at a gas station.
My car, a 2003 Jeep Liberty, lovingly called Jeepy, feels like my companion in this journey. For one, she was cast aside by her former life partner for a newer model. This didn’t happen to me but still feels very Divorce Like, so we are kindred spirits. I have made her travel thousands of miles as I went from PA to DE to MD to FL to NC over and over again and still, she was like I am old but we can do this. And I thought yes, bitch! We are old and we can!
Then upon arrival she said nah, you’re home now, I’m gonna rest a minute. So, she did. 10,080 minutes, approximately.
A year ago, I bought a Patagonia Day Pack for my many train trips to Florida. It felt like an expensive purchase (It was $100, this is expensive by most people’s standards!) but I have used it three times just in the last week as I have trekked to the specialty grocery store within walking distance. I have no point here other than that sometimes the decisions I make do pay off, actually.
The man that hooked up my Wi-Fi was friendly and personable. His southern drawl was my favorite kind; thick but not overly so. We chatted easily; at one point he asked me where I was from and when I said Pennsylvania, he said “I was going to guess that, based on your accent”. He has done work all over; he spent a lot of time in Pittsburgh. When he started talking about how North Carolina is still mostly conservative “thankfully” and what “those people” are doing to “the kids”, I briefly considered whether or not it would be wise to quit my job on the spot, thus no longer needing Wi-Fi, so I could kick this man out of my home quicker.
My basic needs list has grown smaller but so has my savings account. It has been painful, watching it shrink. That was my downpayment. My cottage money. My happily ever after.
I still don’t have all of my belongings and furniture and every day there are boxes stacked up by my door because of the plethora of things I need to buy but at the risk of sounding like some inspirational poster hung up in a therapist’s office, when I strip away all the details and get down to the bare bones, what I really, truly wanted was just a home that makes me happy.
Someday I hope to have a yard and a screened in porch and wildflowers to dance in if I so choose (I fully intend to embrace some sort of no bra, tank top, hippie skirt situation eventually). But for now— I get to sit on a balcony and hear church bells and see birds and sunsets and walk around in tiny shorts and a hoodie and fluffy socks without anyone telling me I look ridiculous, and I can leave books on my kitchen counter, couch, bed and I can watch whatever I want on tv or nothing at all and I can drink wine and bake and I don’t have to make dinner or I can make an elaborate meal with leftovers for days and I can buy plants and hang photos of all my people on the front of my fridge and I can stay up late and listen to music I love and I can do crafts like this home is a YMCA summer camp and I can drink whiskey and cry without judgement and I can buy things on sale and I can
Breathe.
Today was the first day I really spent exploring Morganton as a resident. I met the owner of a bookstore, a woman fiercely and righteously trying to fight back against a bigoted and backwards school board. I met Linda, who works at The Olive, a fancy balsamic/olive oil/wine bar. A man standing at a bus stop told me I was beautiful. I drank beers while reading the memoir my favorite poet wrote about her divorce, occasionally glancing up to stare at the mountains I could see clearly in the distance. I chatted with the bartender who told me a coworker of hers lives in the same apartment complex I do. Coincidentally, he came in not long after and I met my neighbor, Alex.
Eventually, I walked back to my apartment and punched in my 4-digit code, watching in anticipation as the keypad beeped green.
It’s good to be home.