It’s been a while since I’ve written, and in the meantime I’ve found, purchased and moved to my new home in Brewster, Mass. It came together as a kind of example of kismet – my back-up offer actually being accepted after a primary offer fell through – and now this house feels like a home I’ve lived in for years.

Like all of my previous homes, this one needs work – both baths need gutting, the kitchen could stand a good $10k in floors, cabinets and counters and the huge yard is a huge mess. Of course, these classic Chuck’s-house problems only make the place seem more familiar. They enable me to don the metaphorical rose-colored glasses, through which I generally prefer to look at the world, with abandon. I walk through rooms or across the lawn, cup of coffee or glass of wine in hand, and see visions of slate floors, soapstone counters and a fern-banked stream. (O.k., so the stream is really a drainage ditch – but that’s why I like my glasses.)

Spring has really settled into these parts. On the Cape, spring appears to be a real season – instead of the three days between 35-degree weather and 80-degree weather one generally gets in Chicago. It lingers and teases a bit. Daffodils are in bloom all over town, the weeping cherry tree that I see through my office window is covered in feathery red blossoms – and traffic is picking up noticeably as snowbirds return from Florida and weekend homeowners visit to prepare their retreats for the summer. Bart and I even splashed ankle-deep through the very cold Atlantic this weekend, walking out on the sand flats that stretch almost a mile during low tide.

So, new season, new beginnings. A cliche, perhaps, if this were fiction. But this is my life, and I’m enjoying the chance to start up a new chapter.