Jun 24, 2022 3 min read

It’s been three weeks in my new place.

That’s three weeks of new sounds, new light streaming through the glass, a new floor pattern that’s had me walking into the garage instead of the closet over and over again.

“Do you like it there?” people ask, and my answer is an unqualified yes. It’s bright and airy here, and the sunrises off the back patio are worth getting up for. There’s a big, open green space less than a block away that Smoothie and I visit a few times a day. We’ve met some nice neighbors there, including a Bernedoodle named Elvis.

Yes, I like it here, but settling in has been slow. About half of what I own is still in the garage, in poorly labeled boxes that betray little about what’s inside. Living these 21 days without my kitchen stuff has proven that survival requires many fewer tools than we think. I’ve been cooking with one good knife and a rubber spatula.

And sleeping like a poor twenty-something. At the previous house, the movers tried to dismantle my metal bed and found the bolts had been stripped. Our options were three: call off the closing and stay put; leave the bed for the new owners, or chop it up.

“Do you have a reciprocating saw?” asked the mover.

“What?” I said. “I don’t even own a screwdriver.”

They made a call and a man showed up with the saw and cut the bed frame into pieces small enough to extract them from the room. Reassembling would have required a welding torch (which I also don’t own), and so they junked what was left of my bed.

And so now I sleep close to the floor, on a box spring and mattress. It gives a zen feeling to my nights. Smoothie steps right up to sleep near me.

On my second night here, I woke to a crawly feeling on my arm. It was a centipede, creepy, and without thinking I swatted it away. I was pretty sure it landed on the floor next me, but it was dark in the room. I turned on the lights and looked everywhere but couldn’t find it. Removed all the bed covers. Not there either.

This called for a good going-over with the vacuum cleaner, so I went to the garage to look for it, found it behind a big box marked “kitchen stuff”, (aha!) and started sweeping. But then I remembered I share that bedroom wall with a neighbor, whom I’ve yet to meet, and it was 3 a.m.

I slept with one eye open. Three days later I found the centipede in the shower. It was more leggy than I remembered – maybe a millipede? A zillipede? And was it even the same bug that was in my bed? And if not, it’s possible I don’t have an insect, but an insect problem.

Even so, when people ask if I like my new home, I always say yes. But then I tell them about the bed on the floor and the zillipede that climbed in there with me that second night, and how I still can’t find all my stuff. But eventually I start telling them about the morning light and the pretty sunrises. And Elvis.

And I tell them it’s starting to feel like home.

Beth Dolinar can be reached at cootiej@aol.com.