by Jim Bessey

Created on: January 27, 2008   Last Updated: October 31, 2008

Shortly after Christmas and my birthday, deep in the heart of a snowy bitter winter week, I left my spacious Victorian home and moved into a tiny apartment in town. At least, the sign taped to the front wall had called it an apartment. Several good friends helped me move, and helped me fix the place up quite a bit. I can only assume they kept their thoughts to themselves out of respect for my feelings, or out of pity.

It's an old story, one familiar to any man who has found himself longing for a Corvette somewhere around his fortieth birthday. I wanted greener pastures and found myself suddenly living in the city equivalent of a stable instead. Money was tight, and my whole future was up in the air. The rest of my family stayed behind, safe and warm in a sprawling three-story farmhouse I'd built myself (with lots of help).

My new landlord accepted a small cash deposit and the first month's rent, and wondered aloud how long I could stand the shock of living in three rooms. I had met him a few years earlier while I was building an enormous Cape Cod house for a business acquaintance. I didn't know at the time that he owned rental property, and had never dreamed I'd become his tenant.

Of course, I didn't think I'd spend much time there anyway. My new life was beckoning seductively on the near horizon. I was going places! Sounds like wishful rationalizing now, but I believed it at the time. Because my new home was so cramped, I left most of my larger possessions behind, too. I had one closet, a bookcase, some cast-off cabinets we'd hung in the hallway, and a few cubic feet in the "shed" next to my lop-sided front door.

My two kids spent alternating weekends there with me. It seems impossible now, looking back, that the three of us even found room to sleep. Yeah, it was cozy alright. If you stood at the spot where my foyer/kitchen met the hallway you could turn 360 degrees and see the four farthest walls. South was the minuscule bathroom. East showed kitchen sink and front door, while north delivered a fine view of my living room. That was the only room offering more than one window. Turning west, I could peer directly into my "bedroom," although there was no room for a bed in there.

How big was it? I shudder to remember accurately. Far less than 400 square feet seems a plausible guess. It was probably about the same size as the garage attached to the house I share now with my second wife. I think we still have two or three pieces of furniture from that apartment. One, at least, now resides in our basement rec-room.

In the end, I stayed nearly a year there. My new love rescued me from the place she called "adorable" with well-concealed sarcasm, when she asked me to move in with her. We've made a life together and purchased a lovely ranch house crafted in the 1960s. Did living for twelve months in such humble surroundings help me appreciate everything we have now? Yes, it certainly did. Every single day. And my children have a bedroom all their own. It's almost as big as that apartment was back then.

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