ACT I

In the summer of 2023, I rented a two-room house on Main street, in a small Northern Vermont village. This had been my home for 22 years. I shared this home with my beloved Roderick, who passed in 2010, and then continued to share it with his (our) dog, MacGregor, and my cat Marley.

Our landlords raised the rent a year or two after we settled in, and very reasonably so. They never raised it again. This generosity was a welcome help to my modest income, especially after my husband passed.

The July 10th weather forecast was alarming. I rarely pay attention to such things, feeling that the promise of clouds and rain, especially for extended periods, can impact one’s mood and energy. But it had rained and rained and rained, and intuition prompted me to take notice. Before bedtime, I arranged to drive up to a friend’s house, uphill from me, if necessary. I also filled a backpack with essentials and checked the end of the street for signs of the nearby river reaching out of its bed. Nothing yet. Still cautious, I set my clock to wake me every hour so that I may keep watch through the night.

My 4 am peek out the door revealed water pooling at the end of the street, a bit further than three houses away from mine. An hour later, water was near my driveway. Time to grab the backpack and move uphill. At 6:30, a neighbor texted a photograph of my house, submerged in at least two feet of water. I felt oddly serene, not panicked. MacGregor and Marley had passed in 2019 and 2021. Thank goodness my “kids” did not have to go through this. That right there is where my sense of priorities stands.

ACT II

But there was another reason for my serenity. My uphill friend’s daughter was visiting her dad. I had only met her on occasion when she was still a child. She was a young 20-year-old or so by then, and a creative, free spirit I found to be deeply wise. She sat with me and we talked for three hours straight. About everything. Life. Growing up. Mental health. Spiritual health. My house was lost. My home was lost. I suspected my belongings were mostly lost as well. But in that instant, as this one young human being filled me with her presence, her ability to listen, and her gift of wisdom, nothing else mattered.

ACT III

In the afternoon, her mom (her parents were separated) invited me to move into a private loft in her home, for as long as I needed. This is where I slept that first night, with only my backpack. But I felt so safe, so loved, so cared for, that all things I might have lost, least of all my home, did not really cross my mind.

It took over a week to clear out my place. I did lose a lot. There’s just so much you can own in a two-room house. But it’s also mind boggling how much you can accumulate. I did not want to burden anyone, so I planned on making several car trips on my own to move the things I could save. And many trips to the dump too.

One day, out of the blue, a young man with a big, commercial flatbed stopped by as I was loading the car. He identified himself as the son of a former town business owner I knew well and offered his help. We wrapped up my move in one trip.

ACT IV

I stayed in the loft for a few weeks, all the while going to work and searching for my new home. The flood was a financial reality check. My incredibly low rent, for 22 years straight, left me with a rather skewed understanding of the current market. Everything, even a mere studio, was now far beyond my means.

Out of the blue, again, an email appeared from a woman from a few miles away from my flooded house. She explained that we had met years ago and chatted on the sidewalk in front of my place. I had no recollection. She said she had been thinking about me since the town flooded, and offered the studio apartment in her basement that was normally reserved for visiting family. She even invited our dog along, not knowing that he was gone. I was taken aback by her generosity. A visit to tour her home and the offered space followed a day or two later. Based on the rates I had seen, she could easily have made a healthy profit. She wanted nothing.

This space was not available indefinitely, but long enough for me to have a safe, and I must add cozy and beautiful home while I kept searching. My first stop was Homeshare. This program matches people looking for housing with individuals, often seniors, who rent rooms in their homes in exchange for rent and/or assistance with chores, lawn care, appointments, or meals.

ACT V

A place was offered to me soon after the Homeshare screening process. It was in a beautiful, 19th century brick house owned by a woman who had run a bookstore there in the 1980’s. In fact, I had met her on a few occasions when vacationing in Vermont back then.

She asked me to choose my favorite of two rooms. The larger one, a second-floor corner room, had huge windows looking out front and to the side, and a bright and peaceful view. The smaller one was charming too, and $100 less per month. I chose the larger room, even though it only had a bed and I would have to purchase at least a chair and bureau.

When it came time to sign the contract, I noticed that it listed the lower rent amount originally quoted for the smaller room and pointed out the error. She said that was her price now and, with a huge, mischievous smile, added, “Live with it!”

I moved in a few weeks later. She walked me to my door and opened it to reveal a furnished room. She had a desk moved from one of her own rooms, and a bureau, and a chair to make a reading corner.

She passed a year later. She was frail but sharp and intelligent about her lifestyle. And though I understood this living arrangement would certainly not extend for so long, I also thought she could easily be around until well past 100. Everybody did.

ACT VI

This time, I panicked. It finally sank in. Interesting choice of words as all this played out downstream of a flood, don’t you think?! For the first time since losing my house, I felt I may become homeless.

But fate had one more surprise. Again, out of the blue, an email. This time, the stranger was a physical therapist named Kelly. Apparently, her client, my Homeshare host, had spoken of me with high praises and hinted at my circumstances should she no longer be around. Clearly, she sensed this would be sooner than later.

Kelly offered me a private suite downstairs in her home. First, I met with her and her husband. We chatted for a long time. I felt we could easily get along. But my heart sank when they showed me the suite. In my mind, there was no way I would be able to fit this beautiful home in my budget. I was wrong.

I’m a housemate here, not a tenant.

It took me a while to settle in, to get used to their activity around the house, and mostly to come to peace with the notion that anyone could so generously share their property. What they gave me is not just a suite in a house, it’s a home and family.

What did I do to deserve this? This is incomprehensible to me and that question pops up often with a friend who gives me the same answer every time: “You are kind, thoughtful, and generous. This just comes back around to you. Accept it.”

I’m not sure I can accept this. But I am truly grateful.