It’s been two weeks since Gwen the Beautiful and I moved into our Paradise Sound home, and in the short time we’ve been here we’ve had so many ups and downs that all I can think of is a phrase famously uttered not only by everyone’s favorite detective, Sherlock Holmes, but also by our fave sociopathic infant, The Family Guy’s Stewie Griffin:
“What the deuce?”
What am I talking about? For openers, this:
Move Ups
Youngest Daughter Amber lives just across the Sound, only an hour and a half away…and that’s when the traffic is bad. Oldest Son Jeb lives straight down the coast in L.A., loves the town, and can’t wait to bring his family here to relax and enjoy.
We’re renting a terrific house. It’s Craftsman-style and was built in the 1930s. It’s also in exactly the neighborhood we wanted. Uptown, a three minute walk from shops and restaurants and smack dab in the middle of the small town Victorian charm that made us love this place when we vacationed here last summer.
Our furniture and other belongings arrived at the same time we did. Intact and ready to use.
Medical services also are just a few minutes away. Even the hospital, located halfway across town, is only a five minute drive.
The restaurants are as good as we remembered.
Our street is famous. Locally anyway. For its friendliness and cohesion. There’s neighborhood this and family that. Our first weekend here was distinguished by a block party. The second by a giant yard sale shared by everyone on the street. If you’re a social kind of person who left your previous abode because it was in the Middle of Nowhere, with the nearest neighbor half a mile away, then the name “Paradise” takes on even more significance than it originally had.
Move Downs
We’re renting a house instead of owning it, and it’s for sale. Which means letting realtors in to show the place. And dealing with a rental agent who means really well but keeps exhausting both of us by working so very hard to make a better impression on me than anyone but my wife and family can. (Hmm, I wonder…If I adopt him, will we both be able to relax?)
Our furniture and other belongings have arrived, but we have no place to put almost half of them. An old house means winding stairs and low bedroom ceilings. Which also means I have to use the downstairs bathroom because I can’t stand upright in the one upstairs. We’re not exactly loaded with closet space either. Most of my clothes are in the guest room. (Luckily, not all my underwear.)
About those medical facilities: I’m even happier they’re close by than I thought I’d be. Because they’re getting way more use than I thought I’d give them. I know I told the world I was coming here to recuperate, but c’mon, Universe, can’t you give me more than two nights in a row when Gwen and I aren’t throwing on our clothes to get me to the E.R.?
The restaurants not only are as good as we remembered, they’re also as expensive.
Our street indeed is loaded with enough friendliness and cohesion for even the most social human. Unfortunately, I chose to live on The Mountain because that description just plain ain’t me. (Gwen, however, is in her glory. People to talk to instead of rocks and trees and animals and spirits! A life that’s real in a way she’s wanted more than she even knew.)
Speaking of spirits, I miss my daily conversations with The Mound in the Cloud Creek Ranch clearing. And nothing in our cute little backyard has said, “I love you” to me yet. Not one dandelion. Nor a squirrel. Nor even one of the zillion bones the dogs have dug up. (Some of which look far too much like they should be yakking away.)
Not that our new digs are entirely without magic. There’s the music that wafts out from within the secret door to nowhere in our bedroom every night. And the sound of a dog that isn’t there barking on the upper deck that should, but doesn’t, connect to the house. Oh, and the nice young Victorian-era couple Gwen can only see out of the corner of her eye….
See what I mean? “What the deuce?” happenings if ever there were any.
Gotta love ‘em.
Hello, Paradise Sound.
Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer. He, his wife and their various animals divide their time between the Ozark Mountains and Puget Sound. The other residents of Larry’s mythical Paradise reside entirely in his imagination and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.