The landlord's handyman came by and did three or four repairs, one of them climbing the wooden ladder I still have and cleaning the gutters, and upon returning to earth he said, "That roof really needs replacing."
Inwardly I jumped for joy, because I've known for a year that the roof is in terrible shape, but was waiting until the landlord noticed, because my complaints involving repairs or replacements don't go very far. In exchange for cheap rent I must accept a crumbling house, appallingly "roachier" and "mousier" than I've seen in 14 years living here. And--blasphemy-- I began to think for the first time of moving from my dream house. Of course the question becomes, where would I go?
Better not to think about it and to live in the moment and enjoy wonderful lengthy days of June, and the rain-washed greenery and wild roses and birds I love, and the propane I got very cheaply on May 30, when demand bottoms out; see what I've learned, living in the country? February through May I fell into bed at 2 a.m. exhausted but exhilarated by a bigger bank account, allowing wonderful travel plans -- I haven't traveled for fun for three years. And yet, and yet. . .I've reduced my life to nothing but work. I hardly cook and throw no parties. (When I was overworking I ate raw green lettuce and Spaghetti-Os out of cans.) No one comes by. I hunt mushrooms, photograph and ID them, and dry the specimens. I've been trying to make more connections: hiking and camping meetups, business and professional meetings, gallery hops Friday nights in town, calling friends, dating sites. But nothing comes of these. Something's deeply wrong and needs adjustment. It's probably not my beloved house.