Hillsboro House is my new home. I think I often surprise people who think they know me... and that might even include my children.

While I was talking to David yesterday and explaining the complications at Reenie's Reach, he laughed so beautifully. It was clear he wasn't laughing at me, because his laughter was so full of love. He knows I have a big heart. He knows that generous people become targets. He knows I prefer to think the best of people. He knows I don't know that the world isn't a handshake sort of place anymore... and he loves all of that about me, though I imagine he worries a lot, too. So, it was that kind of laughter I was hearing. The kind of laughter that feels so good - laughter full of respect, love, and concern.

Mid-November, my sons were able to meet my landlady and see my room at Hillsboro House. Describing that they were horrified might be too strong a statement, but unbeknownst to me until yesterday, both have since that day conferred and been concerned about my transition.

Hillsboro House is what I'd call a Dr. Seuss House in peril. The Internet photos were taken during the glamorous days of Hillsboro House just after it'd been renovated. The exterior is painted with whimsical baby shades of yellow, pink, and blue.

I'm laughing at this moment as I recall the day my sons and I visited before I moved in. My eldest is fond of telling people he makes paint. He's always very quiet and humble about this - he makes it sound like he stirs up finger paints for preschoolers. This is hardly the case. He's 4th generation of the largest privately controlled industrial paint company in the world. I get to brag. He's my son and it isn't my family.

My eldest son, the paint tycoon, muttered some as we approached my new home via the wobbly sidewalk. Hillsboro House lists a lot. Despite the cheerful paint colors, it has a worn-out, saggy look of despair. I suspect if it weren't rooted with the protection of an urban-scape, it would sway in a gentle prairie breeze, a poetic zephyr. I think it's the fragile exterior paint that's miraculously holding the ancient wooden slats together. Large slabs of paint have lifted and bubbled and are ready to springboard with the slightest encouragement to disappear to distant lands. If this should ever happen I'll pray the termites are clasping hands tightly.

My room is sweet. Someday I'll have the courage to post photos. Courage, you query? Hillsboro doesn't fit the profile I think people have of me. Hmm, well, folk on the mountain know me pretty well. Most the furniture is particleboard stuff and the one upholstered piece has tears in the armrests with stuffing oozing out. I'm all about color, but there's no scheme or aesthetics remotely associated with the decor of my room. Hillsboro House is very old and my room has that turn-of-the-century attic look, which is actually the most charming asset to my space. The bathroom is quite nice with turn-of-the-century linoleum with small patches missing. I'm not smart enough to figure if the door frame is askew or the door is, but a significant wedge of space is at the top. The charm of this room would easily escape everyone... but me.

This is the dealio: I'm happy. I love my space - everything about it. When David and I were laughing our wonderful laughs yesterday, I kept on repeating, "I don't know why I'm happy, but I am. I don't know why I'm happy, but I am." And that made us laugh even more.

My children think I've plunked myself down into an intolerable situation. Meh, they're just kids.

I think it's the artist in me or the social worker or the person who's not easily impressed anymore. The kinds of things that impressed me in my youth have not been the things to impress me over the past decades. Art and Outreach have been the matrix of my yearnings. Quality no longer focuses on the material. I strive for the type of quality that one can't place a value because it's priceless though affordable for everyone.

So that's about it until later this evening. Believe it or not there's more.