8 August 2010

Part I

I’m well and truly alone now, sitting in front of the library at the only Internet hotspot in town. I dropped Mum off at the Bangor Airport today, and, as I drove away, I had to fight back tears. Not because I regret this or because I’m not excited about what lies ahead in these next four months. But home is…safe. And I’ve left all of that behind.

Sitting at a red light in Bangor, wondering what on earth I’m doing, my car pointed south towards my rugged peninsula but my foot on the brake, all of those doubts started creeping back in. Then a big RV turned in front of me, and emblazoned across the side of the camper were the words Be Brave. I’m one to scoff at those who claim to receive divine messages, but I needed those words right then, and I won’t question who sent them.

Part II

I’m actually sitting in bed as I write this. Just after I published the last post (7 August 2010), my Internet connection dropped, so I drove the few miles back to my apartment. Right as I turned down the gravel lane that leads to my new home, a red fox darted across the road in front of me. He was gorgeous, and just the sight of him—a reminder that this part of the country is still a little wild, remains slightly untouched—lifted my spirits.

It’s several hours later, and I’m not feeling so brave anymore. I was hungry when I arrived back at my apartment, and, rather than try to bake something elaborate, I simply put a sweet potato in the oven to cook for dinner. The oven is a gas one, and, while I’m used to an electric oven, I do know how to work one that runs on gas. I turned a burner on to make sure I didn’t need to light a match for it, and the blue flames flared immediately to life. I took that as a good sign, turned the oven on, and put in my sweet potato. I straightened up a bit, arranged the crate of books I brought on the shelves, and then nearly jumped out of my skin when the fire/gas detector in my apartment suddenly bleated out its shrill, blaring warning. Fearing that toxic gas was building up and was mere moments from exploding (remember that bit about my severely overactive imagination?), I hurriedly turned off the oven, frantically opened all three windows, and then ran up the drive to Tim and Leslie’s. Tim was kind enough to come back down and check things for me. He thought the alarm was probably just sensitive, and the oven’s brand new so it’s probably just working itself out. About fifteen minutes later, the alarm almost gives me another heart attack. I climbed back up on a chair and used a chopstick to reach up and push the button to shut the alarm off. And then I turned off the oven and broke out the bread and cheese and applesauce.

I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it, but my toilet for the next four months is a bucket that sits under a wooden sit in a small, neat shack a short walk from my apartment. Yep, a compost toilet. Every time I use it, I drop a little bit of sawdust in there, and, when it fills up, I hauled the bucket to the compost heap and dump it out. A bit rustic, but it’s really not bad at all. Except at night. Remember, the imagination that likes to run rampant. I’m not hiking out to the edge of the woods at night. No way, no how. That’s a freak-out session waiting to happen. So to combat such a situation, I got an extra bucket to keep in my house in case of a middle of the night emergency. The only problem is that anyone and everyone has a bird’s-eye view into the three rooms in my apartment when the lights are on; so I’ve put the bucket in my small shower, which at least has fogged glass, with a roll of toilet paper right beside it. Just in case. I’ve been trying not to drink too much water in the evenings to prevent such situations, but when nature calls…

So here I am, sitting on my bed with every window in my house still open (in case there was a build-up of gas that failed to escape) and a bucket in my shower so that if I have to pee in the middle of the night my sanity won’t suffer. It’s not terribly late, but I’m still drained from those three days of driving and my day starts early tomorrow—five o’clock. I hope I remember to move the bucket from the shower before the repairman gets here at six to fix my finicky hot water heater…

when I was originally writing this, I was sitting under the tent at the far left of the picture

me sitting at the entrance to my new home

my bedroom

my kitchen

my living room/dining room

my compost toilet in the foreground and the cider house behind it (my apartment is the second level)