Finally, after a brutal winter, a non-Spring Spring, I have reached The Rock, and the island off the coast of Maine where I live, more or less, the way people used to live in the 19th Century.
I have cold running water, a drilled well, outdoor "facilities" (it's called "'s Haeusl", German for "Outhouse", named by my former South Austrian other half years ago) and while electricity comes and goes, lighting is still done by kerosene lamps from time to time. When the electricity goes out, I have to pump the water by hand. Bathing is done in galvanized tub, with water boiled in a kettle and I shave and wash my face in a 19th Century ceramic washbasin with a hog-bristle brush and soap. The razor does the rest. I peek into an ivory-framed mirror that belonged to my great-Aunt Emma.
This is how I like to live.
There are a lot of good reasons to live like this. Hauling one's own wood, for instance, and living on an island away from the folks on the mainland, for instance. That's enough for me. I have lived in the country in Massachusetts, in the city in Houston, Texas; in the "neighborhoods" in Boston, and in the winter, in Portland, ME. The city is nice; the rural spots are better.
I wish I could share some photos with you, but nothing is co-operating with me this morning. Suffice it to say that I am happy to be here, on my little Rock, with a little fresh water and a little food, and the prospect of harvesting some from the sea.
It is, indeed, enough just to be here. One needs very little to feel whole.