PACKING UP, SHUTTING DOWN, AND CRYING IN THE DRIVEWAY

Every year, right around this time, I enter my personal season of great sorrow: The annual closing of Perkins Place. Some people get emotional over holiday movies or the last slice of cake. Me? I cry over a 77‑year‑old shack with a personality of its own.

I love this house like it’s a pet - one of those scruffy rescue dogs with a mysterious past and a tendency to wobble in strong winds. When I pull out of the driveway, I swear I can hear it whimper. Tears well up in my eyes, too, because leaving it feels like abandoning a loyal companion who can’t fend for itself.

And honestly, sometimes it does look fragile. There are days when I’m convinced the Big Bad Wolf could take one deep breath and send the whole place tumbling into the lake. But then I remember that this little cottage has survived 77 years of hurricanes, tropical storms, and whatever that thing was in 2004 that everyone still talks about in hushed tones. So yes, looks can be deceiving.

Over the years, I’ve perfected my closing‑up routine. It’s practically a military operation now:

• Notify my sweet next‑door neighbor, who keeps an eye on the place like it’s a national treasure.

• Clean everything. And I mean everything.

• Empty the fridge and pantry so I don’t return to a science experiment.

• Put clean sheets on the bed for Future Me, who will be tired, sweaty, and grateful when I return.

• Turn off all the utilities so the electric company doesn’t send me a passive‑aggressive bill.

And then comes the most important step - the sacred family ritual passed down from my grandparents: The pest foggers.

My grandparents swore by them. My mother did not. The mice and bugs noticed. They threw a house party. They invited friends. They stayed for months.

I, however, am a woman of diligence. I never leave Perkins Place for more than a month without setting off foggers like I’m signaling Batman. The mice have packed their tiny bags and moved on. The bugs have dwindled to a polite, manageable few who understand boundaries.

The only catch? Foggers only last a two to three months. Which means I occasionally “have” to pop down to Florida for a weekend to set off a fresh batch. Purely for maintenance, of course. Not because I crave sunshine, the palm trees, and the feeling of being a functioning human again. No, no - this is responsibility.

I can buy foggers at big box stores, but they’re not always in stock when I need them. So, I just order them from Amazon like the devoted, slightly dramatic caretaker I am.

https://amzn.to/3Ot8PET

And that’s the story of how I prepare Perkins Place for my seasonal departure with tears, elbow grease, and enough pest foggers to fumigate a small kingdom.

Perkins Place: Still standing.

Me: Still crying.

The bugs: Still running away terrified.

A perfect balance.