Going to my room.

I have the perfect writing space in my new house. Judging by the ochre and sky-blue blades of the ceiling fan, and the room's size, it most likely belonged to a child. It's tiny, and right now, crowded with boxes of books that I have yet to unpack. My desk is pushed against a windowless wall -- just the blank page to look at, and the slow sense of relief that washes over me as I find the words to fill it.

To my right, there's a small window just below the ceiling that looks out into the backyard. It's just high enough to let the daylight in. As I type this, I can see the sun spilling over the leaves of an oak tree, one of its younger limbs reaching toward daylight as it cascades over the roof. 

The tree cover of our house and yard keeps the air heavy with humidity. That moisture is what allowed the yard to get so lush and unruly. It has created a lot of work for me. But I take comfort in that. This house is a place of growth.

The mystery in my front yard.

Somewhere around leaf bag number 30, I hit the wall. The novelty of tending to my very own yard had worn off. My wife and I had just closed on our first home a few hours prior, and I found myself waist-deep in an ever-expanding sea of black contractor bags, brimming with leaves. 

I enjoy a good story, especially a mystery. If our new home has a story -- especially the yard -- it is a story of neglect. The tale remains largely a mystery to me. As I've worked to bring the yard in line, I've found a few clues: the mangled shower curtain rod hidden beneath a mountain of soggy leaves in the hedges, the half-used container of lawn mower oil discarded next to the front walk, empty cans of cat food sunken into the grass like landmines, and about two autumns' worth of leaves blanketing every surface and snared in the tangled lower branches of hedges.

Each discovery came with a twinge of sorrow and a feeling that our house deserves better. I leaned the rake against my shoulder and opened and closed my hands, feeling the raw flesh of my palms scrape against the inside of my gloves. I asked myself then, if I had choice, would I have it any other way?

There were more bags to fill, and it was getting dark. 

An ode to Hometown, New Jersey.

When people ask me where I'm from, I tell them New Jersey, but not the New Jersey you're thinking of. "It's like someone took a piece of West Virginia and stuck it into the northeast," I say. They have a hard time understanding that there are still places in the state where black bears and coyotes roam. 

Growing up in a place like this, where it's still a little rough around the edges yet only an hour away from New York City, helps a person figure out what they're after in life. Some of us left and never looked back. I guess nature never got under their skin like it did mine. There are others, like me, who left only to return. The harshness of the city was for some reason less palatable than nature's indifference. And there are others still who never left. Maybe they were wiser than me and realized that everything they would ever need in life was right here.

Out on the trails that flank this town, you can tell who's a local and who isn't. Last weekend, my friends and I hiked a portion of the Appalachian Trail that spans the New Jersey/New York border. It's easy to spot the locals on the trail. They hike in sneakers and blue jeans, carrying backpacks laden with beer. The through-hikers struggle by under the weight of internal-frame packs, burdened with necessities to get them from Georgia to Maine. And then there are the college kids from the city, who come out for day hikes in their Patagonia jackets, yoga pants and ironic t-shirts. The latter two groups usually scoff at us as we down our beer and cause a scene that would seem incongruous with the place they're viewing as outsiders.

But we understand. We know this place and it knows us, too. And no matter where we go in the world, this place will be here for us, ready to welcome us back with a beer and a beautiful view.