Moving in is hard to do, but live among the boxes is just good enough.
For roughly a week, the commute has changed, and I have been getting settled in my new neighborhood. The quiet has been borderline deafening - the television goes nowhere near as loud now that it no longer competes with busy 51st Avenue South and I-40. Opening the door to eight lanes of highway every morning did nothing to improve my tinnitus. I can hear the wildlife again, and don't need a calculate to figure out the number of passing cars.
It was necessary to close that chapter of my Nashville years. I endured too many cold winters and blistering summers to stay another. After giving notice, finding an apartment on Craig's List and leaving Columbus in three short weeks, I finally uprooted from Nashville's West Side, trading it for a side-by-side duplex on the east side enclave of Inglewood.
While the commercial corridor of Gallatin Pike needs a loving hand (the closest restaurants and only ones within a mile are Sonic and Church's Chicken), there are pockets of commercial development, including a little swath of restaurants buried in the neighborhood and only a short bike ride away.
The change of scenery will help, but moving had a much more practical backdrop: I need to be on a lease to make tough decisions. I spent four years in an ugly roommate situation, and it only took a year back on a lease for me to leave Columbus, which remains in play if I depart Nashville.
But fear not, dear friends; for now, my only concern is getting this apartment looking right for a little Sunday afternoon housewarming.
I bought little of consequence for the Delaware Avenue place, and jury-rigged spaces for my surging record collection, my beer-making gear and other new hobbies. Rather than buy more storage, I found that Trapiche Broquel's wooden boxes perfectly fit 12-inch LPs. I still have to add a bathroom shelf for all those little wares that need a home, but home has mostly been established, despite me only spending a few hours a week there. Between jobs and gym hours, I barely do anything there besides read, sleep or fend off a cat made surlier by another move and long, lonely days.
The changes are immediate at the old place, of which I have cleared the final hurdle - the landlord returned my deposit, and I returned it to the bank.
I stopped by the mailbox to check for any lingerers and while finding no mail, I noticed an odd contraption on the front porch: the ancient furnace which spat out blazing heat in a 10-foot radius and had no further influence on the apartment's temperature.
On the coldest nights, I slept on the couch. Whoever lands there next might still face stunningly cold winter mornings - built in 1910, the place has no insulation -but they'll go without that metal hulk and its teasing heat. My new heater might not radiate any greater warmth, but at worst, it's only for a single winter.
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