A head's turn

It was always going to be just a way-stop … a place to hang our hats while we sought the lake spot. “Just here for a year or so,” we explained.

That it grew to be a friend in such a short time surprises me.

I dubbed it Hilltop then. Not the house, really, but this 1-acre place.  Its rows of red pines, a hundred strong, march up from the small valley below, sentinels surrounding the long, wide deck on the house’s north side.

To our south, a horse barn and the occasional whinny and snort of a thoroughbred.

To our northwest, a rooster and his raucous crow.  It’s a myth that roosters do their cock-a-doodle thing primarily at dawn.  This one prefers mid-afternoon.

Then there are the winds off the bay.  We could never see the bay, even from our second floor.  But we could smell its freshness – the breeze sometimes heavy with rain, sometimes thick with snow. Sometimes so strong, even on bright, blue days, that the trees would sway deeply, roaring their chorus.

I will miss the trees most of all.  Not that our new place doesn’t have trees.  It does … quite a few.  And I will learn to know them, too.  But these 100 provided solace on many a day from my perch in the second-floor office.

It was a view worthy of the best tree house.  And I rationed it.  Really.  I deliberately placed my desk and computer against a blank, windowless wall, saving the tree-house view to my left, through the large window, for moments of reflection and other, occasional breaks from the job.

It seemed illogical at first.  Why not savor the best view as background to your workaday world? 

But why risk turning what is best and special into workaday?  That’s the trick of working from home, especially when your focus must be elsewhere – in my case, on the happenings in a city three states away.  Separation of where you live and what you do is paramount, if only to keep where you live precious.

This weekend, we’ll say goodbye to the 100, the special second-floor view and to all of Hilltop.  There won’t be sadness … not enough time has been spent here to warrant that. But they’ll be respect and a fond farewell.

Which brings us to the future.  In May last year, I posted a conclusion in the blog regarding our time at this house:

“… Hilltop is but a way-station.  Our goal in two years is to buy or build a lake place. We’ll take the first year or so to scout out locations. And that will keep the adventure going.”

“For while it’s wonderful to be high up to catch the bay breezes, our ultimate haven – heaven – is to be by water’s edge. There the waves will sing their hearty hellos.  And we will join in.”

And so we have. We’re moving to a place on Chandler Lake, just five minutes away.  I’ll post soon with details about the new house.

As to the lake … I don’t know much about it yet beyond its glacial history. We’ve already met many of the new neighbors, and one in particular seems to know Chandler’s role.  And so we’ll soon have them over to eat and talk and share what they know.

We’ve also circled Chandler’s shore in kayaks.  It is a small lake – just over 40 acres – and so it took about an hour to make it around.

Because of its size, the waves’ hearty hellos will be few.  But there is always the big bay for that. 

The views on Chandler, though, will be no less spectacular.

Which brings me to my new office. It will overlook the lake.  There I can watch the loons, the otter, perhaps a beaver or two.  This fall, I’ll see the green trees on the opposite shore transform to bright oranges, yellows and reds.  This winter, I’ll monitor the snow as it sticks loosely to branches and bark in puffy layers.

I won’t watch too much.  Too risky. 

So my desk and computer again will face a blank wall.  That’s a must.

But I’ll work in comfort knowing that occasional relief is but a head’s turn.

This time to the right.