Coming Home to Dixie

Now that we’re here, really here, we’re beginning to experience all the “firsts” that come with a new home, a new town, and a completely new way of life.

Our first visit with new friends happened sooner than expected. Just days after we arrived, one of our neighbors stopped by to check in—and shared stories about the former occupants of our house. Then, last weekend, our realtor, who is quickly becoming a friend, invited us over for a visit to see her baby cows (the girls’ first-time seeing cows up close). There’s something so beautifully Southern about how quickly strangers become acquaintances and acquaintances become friends. In California, we’d lived in our last home for a year and a half without knowing the people in our neighborhood. Here, people knock on your door just to say hello.

Then came the girls’ first days of school. Roslynn couldn’t wait to start at her charming little school where she’s one of just eleven fifth graders. She wore her backpack like a badge of honor and practically skipped into the classroom. Siena was more reserved with that teenage angst about fitting in and making sure she looked “cool, but not too cool.” It’s been a mix of excitement and adjustment for all of us.

And then came the less idyllic “firsts.”

Like being able to text the woman from the water company at 9:30 on a Friday night because our water heater decided to go out—and not quietly, either. It began leaking everywhere. Jim was trying to contain it, and there I was texting someone who technically works for the city, praying they wouldn’t mind the late-night message. To my surprise, she responded right away and even followed up with the number for their field tech in case we couldn’t find the water main. That kind of care is rare—and deeply appreciated. We were without water until the next day when Jim was able to find a replacement valve and fix the issue. Fortunately, it was a small fix and didn’t require a whole new water heater.

Then there was the waste management saga. You’d think in 2025 it would be as easy as setting up service online. Not here. The phone lines didn’t work, and the website was less than helpful, so we had to physically drive to the office to set up garbage service in person. However, once we got there, we learned they only take personal checks or money orders – no debit/credit cards and no cash. It has been so long since I’ve been able to use a personal check to pay a business that I don’t normally carry my checkbook with me. So, we had to come back another day and drive another 30 minutes one way to get it set up. Jim handed over a paper check and was given a handwritten receipt. It felt like something from another time. Around here, deals are still made on handshakes and face-to-face conversations. It’s quaint. It’s endearing. But it’s also an adjustment. We’re not used to such personal service—but it’s a welcome change that reminds us to slow down.

Of course, some “firsts” were less charming.

Like our first huge spider. I mean huge. A few days ago, while walking the backyard and dreaming about where Jim would set up his five (yes, five!) grills, Jim spotted it. He ran into the house to tell me and together we went out to look. There in the middle of a thick web stretched like lace between two bushes was the biggest spider either of us had ever seen (in the wild). After a frantic Google search, we learned it’s a harmless garden spider—shy, even—and that it spins the most intricate, delicate webs with a zig zag pattern going down the middle.

And as with any new beginning, the learning curves continue.

The house we bought, while full of charm and potential, is also thirty years old and let’s just say, showing its age. The oven doesn’t work. The outdoor lights don’t work. The hall bathroom toilet doesn’t work. The garage door doesn’t work. Every day seems to bring a new discovery, and a new item added to the fix-it list. It’s overwhelming, to be honest. There are moments Jim and I sit in our chairs, heads in our hands, feeling completely drained. It’s not just the home repairs—it’s the emotional and physical exhaustion that hasn’t left us since the drive. We’re still recovering, still running on fumes. Speaking of sitting in chairs. . .we donated our sofas back in California to minimize what we moved with us and purchased a sectional that had to be custom ordered. It was supposed to be delivered by the end of this week, but of course, there has been a delay and now it won’t come until next week sometime. In the meantime, we’ve been sitting in camping chairs in our living room. They were comfortable for the first few days, but now our poor backs are aching for a big comfy sofa to stretch out on.

But in the midst of the chaos, there’s grace.

Our little air fryer is moonlighting as an oven, turning out pizzas and chicken tenders like a pro. We’ve installed solar lights to illuminate the yard for now. Home Depot delivers, and a new toilet is en route. And the truth is, we don’t really need that garage door to open right now. Not when we’ve got so much else to focus on. Not when we’re reminded, again and again, that progress is still progress—even if it’s just one thing at a time.

So we breathe. We pause. We say thank you for the little victories: the friendly neighbor and realtor, the adorable baby cows, the text back from the water company, the working solar lights, the school open house that made Roslynn beam. We embrace the firsts and the frustrations as part of the adventure.

We’re here.

And we’re learning that “home” isn’t just where the heart is—it’s also where the water heater leaks, the spiders spin, and the grocery store is 30 minutes away. It’s where you build something new out of something old. One spiderweb. One neighborly handshake. One small fix at a time.