Making peace with a flooded basement.

The setting was idyllic.

I awoke at 6 a.m. somewhere in the mountains of Vermont, the sound of birdsong echoing off the glassy surface of a nearby lake. The sleep was restorative. Twenty-four hours later, I'd be sloshing through the flooded basement of my new home.

I made it back to New Jersey in time to grill some burgers and drink some of the delicious Hill Farmstead beer for which my friends and I had gone to Vermont. I sipped and ate in front of a fire of fallen tree limbs in my back yard, listening to the Grateful Dead play a concert in Atlanta in 1977. Jerry's solo on Sugaree seemed to wind its way between the trees. I packed it in, and the rain started some time later -- torrential rain.

I stepped out of the shower feeling like  a new man. We have no hot water right now, and the showers aren't working. So I stretched a hose from the backyard, through the bathroom window, and into the shower stall. My wife was back home. A bottle of Hill Farmstead's Anna was in the ice bucket. A fleet of fans dehumidifiers were humming in the basement. 

The setting was idyllic.

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.