Meet the Neighbors

A brief entry this morning after a flurry of activity this weekend.

Anyone who knows P has experienced this manic decorating frenzy as soon as it's time to move. I know it pretty well myself--I think we decided over the weekend that this is our seventh change of address since the storm. And it's always the same--P looks at the shell we're about to occupy, and starts scanning craigslist for furniture to fill the empty spaces.

In this case, we are blessed that the prior owner left behind beds, a couple chairs, a fully appointed kitchen and all the glassware in the bar we'll ever need. Our biggest decorating challenge is a cavernous, empty downstairs living space and the equally vacant master bedroom.

We both agreed that, this house having been built in 1849, we should stick with old or old-looking furniture to return the place to its antebellum glory. With this principle in mind, Peg transitioned to staring at her phone for hours on end, looking for antique furniture.

Eventually she happened upon an armoire up near Syracuse in the little town of Baldwinsville, or "B-ville" in the local vernacular. We wound through Amish country on a sunny Saturday to get there, and found that the lady selling it was an antique dealer with two barns and a house full of stuff, pretty much all for sale.

Uh oh.

Roughly two hours and a couple paychecks worth of purchases later, we drove back down the hill with a different armoire in the back of the Ridgeline and a pile of antique furniture slated to arrive here in a couple days.

Yesterday after church was mostly spent moving stuff from the Solarium Apartment down to Tara. We had way too few boxes, and had seriously underestimated the volume of junk we'd accumulated up there. Even moving a block down the street is a physical challenge for two not-quite-oldsters schlepping armloads of heavy stuff up and down a couple flights of stairs. I am a bag of aches and pains today as a result.

Yesterday afternoon brought another quest, this time to Rochester to buy the old desk at which I'm sitting right now. No matter what you may have heard, Rochester is a cool, pretty town, with staid 1920s houses spread among leafy streets and folks enjoying a warm afternoonat one of their neighborhood sidewalk cafes. One of those pedal beer wagons rode by as we were making our purchase, revelers at each barstool drinking and pedaling with equal vigor.

But our weekend isn't what I figured we'd discuss here.

As you might expect, generations of families have lived and died at Tara over 172 years. We are starting to sense that not all of them have exactly exited the building, even after their release from this mortal coil.

The first hint was when Peg stood at the mirror getting ready to go out to supper a couple evenings ago. I was downstairs fiddling with the pile of stuff in the living room waiting to be put away. She came downstairs and looked surprised I was down there.

"I just saw someone out of the corner of my eye behind me in the mirror. Were you upstairs?

"Nope."

"Well, something sort of floated by. Or someone. Maybe it was a headlight."

Given that this conversation was taking place at five in the afternoon, maybe not.

Then there was the cat.

Our three came down on Sunday to check out their new home. We put them down in the basement while we were shuttling boxes into the house, thwarting their relentless attempts to escape into the yard.

From the kitchen came a loud meow. And then another, a plaintive cat howl this time.

We knew for a fact the cats were downstairs, so it wasn't them. We looked in kitchen cabinets, and behind the fridge, trying to find the source of the howling that was clearly coming from this room, somewhere.

I concluded that the meows (and there have been others over the last day or so) were coming from a cat that is not thrilled to be sharing its eternal space with these three reprobates, and lets us know it when we are down there making coffee.

We are beginning to figure out that this large (for us) house may be a little more crowded than we'd planned. There is no malign vibe from the specters, but they let their presence be known every now and then.

Frankly, I could do without the meowing. Maybe Casper the Friendly Dead Cat will make his peace with our posse soon.

Then this morning we met our neighbors, sort of, in the meth house next door.

You see, the grand mansion to our east is a crumbling edifice with peeling paint and all sorts of povertyware on the porch--old broken furniture and toys mostly, the clutter of chaotic lives lived by folks who seem to be on drugs most of the time and sit outside to smoke. The house has been broken into apartments just like the Sinclaire Mansion, but is in even worse repair.

At 6:30 this morning one of them was obviously wide awake, and soon we were as well.

"Tommy, turn off the f****n' truck!" she shouted at the top of her lungs, the nasally upstate delivery echoing off the apartment building behind us.

Then again, with the same expletive bouncing off the walls. We had slept with the door to the second floor porch open for the cool air, in the 50s, so her obscenities were bouncing off our walls, as well.

"What's that all over your face? Where were you all night?"

Rotarians these are not.

Then again with the admonition to shut off the truck. Then more obscenities barely understandable, in rapid succession.

Welcome to the neighborhood. Of the two groups of locals we've encountered in this new space, we find the ghosts far more easy to accommodate. A mysterious cat meow or a shouting, profane member of the underclass? A second floor spirit admiring Peg as she does her hair (I would have admired her myself, had I been there) or the sound of rap blaring from the next-door porch as we attempted to enjoy the cool post-thunderstorm air on our porch last evening?

I'll take the dead folks and their cat, every time.

A little more stuff to move this morning, then digging into work. Someone's got to pay for all this craigslist shopping.