I moved to a new house a few weeks ago. It was a simple two story house in the hills of West Virginia down a fairly residential road nestled between a cluster of looming trees. It had been on the market for a long time apparently, so I purchased it at an almost criminal price. I couldn’t figure out, why, the foundation solid and the interior in amazing condition.
It was at the end of the street, my neighboring residents scattered before me like an audience in a throne room. It was just outside of a small town, a quaint, fairly poor stretch of the state.
I was pleased with the move. I was away from the noise of DC and more importantly, away from the bad memories I left behind. A broken marriage, the loss of a beautiful apartment, and an inevitable divorce. Thanks God I didn’t have any kids.
My new home offered seclusion and privacy while also hosting a receptive community. Within the first couple days I had met all my neighbors, each of them quite a different flavor of humanity than I was used to. Their casual ways and welcoming attitudes were gratefully accepted by myself, a stark contrast to the cold, business like nature of the big city.
I unpacked fairly quickly. I had left most of my belongings in the city with my ex. I wanted a fresh start, ridding myself of unwanted ties to the life I was leaving.
Once I was settled and with Halloween approaching, I decided to decorate my house with the usual seasonal décor. I wanted to show my new neighbors that I could be just as welcoming as they had been to me. I didn’t want to be the creepy single guy at the end of the street.