I’m back to unpacking, a year and a half after we moved here. There are still stacks of boxes in the basement. Obviously not stuff we need for day-to-day living, but still things I either didn’t want to pitch or didn’t have time to go through and then pitch.

Brought a box of old letters upstairs and opened them. I’d already decided to toss out all but the most meaningful letters and cards, figuring that meant keeping family and Joe, of course, and Sally and Daryl (both now gone). Knew I’d be throwing out letters from high school friends I cruised town with—Cindy and Marlene and Phyllis. Bev Schaeffer? We were good friends in high school but went separate ways pretty quickly afterwards. (Last I heard, she was married to a dentist and living in NC.) But then I came across Kerrie McPhee—she lived (lives?) in Australia. We were penpals for years. I still have a Cold Chisel tape she sent me. Keep or toss? Hers went in the “keep” pile. When I find Karen from Canada’s letters, I’ll keep them, too. A few I didn’t even recognize from the return address will go.

And then I came across a big bag of letters. Larry Lollar and Marvin Williams and Jeff Campbell and Neil Anderson and Kelly Houston (I’m probably even missing a few names in there). Guys I knew in high school who went in the service. In those days before email, we all wrote letters. I dated a few of them, but most of these guys were just friends who needed to hear from someone as they went through boot camp and into the post-Vietnam service. They sent silly postcards and told stories and asked what was going on at home (and in Marvin’s case wrote poetry). I haven’t opened any of the letters yet, but that’s because I’ve got too much work this week and I know if I open one, I’ll just keep going and the day will be lost. I used their full names in case anyone who knows them ever runs across this blog.

I feel sorry for all those in the email generation who will never know the pleasure of opening up a plastic bag years later and finding all these words and thoughts and emotions saved on paper. It’s a treasure.

Ah, yes, the annual time for reflection on the past year and the future year. Past year—yow! Glad that one’s over. Poor 2007. It wasn’t its fault that the housing market tanked just as we were selling our house. Thankfully, though, Ken and Margaret saw their way to Foggy Hollow and understood how special the place was/is. And here we are at Martini Rock, still settling, still unpacking, still loving it.

What have I learned from writing this blog? That there’s an awful lot to my life that I just don’t care to share. That surprised me. I know some people are comfortable with saying anything, but I’m not. I also learned that people love to look at pictures of my dog and that many, many people have trouble with their satellite dishes (the trick is calling and calling until you get the right installer, meaning someone who actually takes a little pride in his work!).

What do I hope for 2008? More writing gigs, which I’m going to have carve out for myself, it seems. Better times for my friends and family who are struggling. A steady paycheck. I’d say world peace, but then I’d have to laugh, thinking of Sandra Bullock in Miss Congeniality, and that’s a shame because war’s not funny and people really should just stop fighting or thinking that war is a good thing for any reason other than self-defense (and I don’t mean fictionalized threats).

Especially I hope my mother continues happily in assisted living with her radio and her routine—probably my biggest wish.

May we all laugh more, love more in 2008!

Ever since we moved here and got our new phone number, we’ve been besieged (and I don’t use that term lightly) by telemarketing calls. Seems the previous owner of this number was a soft touch. I’ve heard from any number of charitable organizations, few of which I recognize.

At first I thought they were creditors because they would hang up when I said this was no longer Tiffany’s number. But then my caller ID started showing the callers’ names and they were vaguely worded association names, along the lines of Association of Firefighters of the Northeast Section of the South (and I apologize if there really is one with that name, but you get my drift).

I told them over and over again that this was not Tiffany’s number. They would just hang up and the next time this number showed up on their rolls, they’d call again. Once with a particularly persistent organization I asked to speak to a manager, and he actually yelled at me, saying he hoped I’d “remember the missing children” (to imagine his tone, think of that pro-Britney video showing right now, only I don’t think this manager was under a sheet when he spoke to me).

My husband said to get a new number, but being self-employed I am very reluctant to change my number again after I’ve given this one to all my clients.

And I’m not at all opposed to charity—I give to a number of organizations when I can. But the constant calling is really getting to me. If I finally get one to understand that this is not Tiffany, they start in on me to contribute.

I’ve registered our number on the Do Not Call list. I wish I had Tiffany’s new number; I’d be giving it out left and right. I have some alternative actions (mostly to amuse myself), but none seems to be fool-proof. If I just hang up, they just call back. Sigh. And so it goes.

Is landscaping the last thing done when building a house because we have to live inside and so we want that finished first? Or is it just because it’s so expensive and we’re all tapped out by then?

Joe and I have been lamenting the lack of landscaping—or, more accurately, the large area of exposed clay. We’re both itching to make progress on it, but priorities override any desires we might have (we’re still asking “Do you know where the ____ is?” about once a day). The basement is not in enough order to entertain in the TV room part yet (it’s football season, although you wouldn’t know it by the way Michigan and Notre Dame are playing!) and I don’t yet have all my cooking utensils, so unpacking trumps digging in the dirt.

We do have the night-blooming cereus out there and the flowering one is at it again—eight new buds, one of which bloomed last night. And our up-mountain neighbor brought us a bee balm and a sweetpea, which are now potted and thriving.

But the rest is pretty barren. Friday evening that same generous up-mountain neighbor brought me some coneflowers to plant at the end of our driveway. We agreed to meet on Saturday morning “after breakfast” and plant them.

When she drove up on her ATV Saturday, she had marigolds, and two types of teas, and . . . wild oregano . . . and I can’t remember what all. The ground around my house number sign is about as pretty as anywhere on the lot now. Makes me feel like I got something done outside. Everyone should have this kind of neighbor!

Joe and I moved two months ago, after living in Foggy Hollow for 21 years. Moving brought a lot of emotion, of course, but it also brought far more adjustment than I thought I’d have to make. After all, we only moved 40 miles north. My doctor won’t change, my mechanic will eventually (he’ll be very hard to replace!). My dentist? Never! (Unfortunately, he’s slightly older than I am so he’ll probably retire before my teeth do.) My bonus card works at the new grocery stores, but I can’t find the farm stands I took for granted. I’ve got a much larger selection of restaurants, but a tighter budget (at least until I find a job). I was prepared for all this.

I also understood that in the language of Frank Lloyd Wright we were going from “nesters” to “perchers.” We had lived in a hollow all those years, with shade plants and a driveway positioned to catch the sun to help the snow melt. We moved to a home half a mile from the top of a mountain. The first time I saw it after the trees were cleared (only those where the house would stand), I told Joe he was giving me the sun.

So adjustments are being made–some predictable, some unexpected. What’s come as a real surprise is that I’m learning a new language.  That started when the excavator’s father called my husband a redlegger. He explained that when he was young, people from the rural valley below us who went into town were called “redleggers” for the heavy red clay that stained their pants as they walked. In those days it was intended as an insult but hearing it now we knew it meant “Welcome to the neighborhood!”

And then I met the first neighbor when she waited on me at the post office. She was very pleased to hear that we lived near her. “Welcome to the mountain,” she said.  ‘The mountain,’ I thought. ‘There’s more than one mountain here, but this one has “The” in front of it. I like that.’ Then she laughed and said, “The dark side of the mountain.” I knew what she meant. We’re on the north side, so we get snow longer and spring later. We witnessed that while building the house. I don’t mind (of course, I haven’t wintered here yet either). But I wouldn’t call it “dark.” My husband pointed out that we are lucky enough to see both the sunrise and the sunset. As the south side slowly darkens in the evening shade, we on the north side get to watch the firey orange sun sink behind the trees.

So that’s become a major entertainment around here. This evening I’m going to my up-mountain neighbors’ to sit on their deck, have a cold one, and watch the sun set.  Now there’s an adjustment I’m happy to make!