Since Benjamin was eight-years-old, Steve and I have talked about retiring to the mountains. It has been a recurring theme in our conversations of what to do next, after we quit working real jobs, after our nest is empty. Last spring we visited friends in southeastern Tennessee—I suppose it could be called central as well. It's off I-40, halfway between Knoxville and Nashville on the Lower Cumberland Plateau. We went back again this fall with the thought of looking around through do-I-want-to-live-here eyes.
The mountainous—little mountains or really big hills—forest community is woven with curvy roads, sharp inclines—enough to require four-wheel drive in snow or ice—wet-weather creeks and year-round streams, really big trees, and running-free wildlife. I've gotten the notion that residents view the key elements with varying degrees of enthusiasm.
So, the process started. We put earnest money on a lot and talked to a builder, then got a contract on the house here within a week, effectively moving our spring expectations up to a December 30th homeless date. The inspection has been done on the house with minimal concerns. Next is the appraisal. Meanwhile, the mover came to de-clutter—my stuff is their clutter, I guess—and we are trying to figure out what we need to live for 6 months in temporary housing.