It took about five and half months: but the little bluff-side apartment is looking more like a home and less like four bare walls. Having moved with only the items I could fit in a car, there was a closet full of clothes, three plants, dozens of
dog-eared books, enough coffee equipment to start a café, and all the favorite
photos. Oh. And a Christmas tree stand.
I was all set to spend the next few months getting lost as I drove about bargain hunting. But before I could even get started, the items I needed most started pouring in: Michael hauled in the tiny wooden bed that his Grandmother had given him when he turned four. His mom took us up into the attic one cold evening to dig for pots and pans, silverware and dishes. The two of them made a mess as they pulled apart box after box, making sure that I had complete sets of everything I needed. The thirty-year old brass lamps lighting the evenings came from his aunt and uncle, as did the couch. The plant came from Home Depot when I stopped to pick up his 'Little Christmas' gift.
And of course, the rug. Oh that rug. On her visit
out here, Mom and I spent a better part of an evening in Target attempting to
compare rugs and find something that would work in the space. We pulled out option after option, laid them in the aisles of Target, bought one, decided it looked
like something from a funeral parlor, and returned it. Later in the week, she managed to
navigate her way around upstate New York without a GPS to find the perfect fit. She then made
me exchange the curtains I had settled for to invest in the ones I
wanted. Every time I look at them I’m grateful that she insisted.
When I look about me now, though it might not all match or look like it came from Pottery Barn, I see warm and generous hearts who didn't think twice about helping a Midwest transplant start putting down roots.
