Drew Perry

My wife, Tita, was at the kitchen window — making coffee, rinsing dishes, staring into the middle distance, something. Both boys were in the backyard. At first, she couldn’t make sense of what she was seeing, she says, when she tells the story now, years later. This was springtime, just after we’d started cutting the grass again for the season. Our older son, Tomás, then 5, almost 6, was riding his bike back there in wide circles.

We’re not big spring cleaning people, to be honest. With two dogs and two boys, we probably should be, but it’s those same dogs and boys who usually leave us too run ragged to do much of anything besides kick the fur/cereal under the couch and move along. Our cleaning bursts tend to arrive from abject necessity — snowstorm, spilled milk (we cry, reader), dog v. rug, dog v. backyard — rather than wondering what to do with a Saturday that yawns open before us. Our Saturdays rarely yawn.

Fundamental to the project of guesting in North Carolina is the notion that the space — any space, whatever space — does not belong only to you. Even if paid for, even if invited, no matter the contract, it is just that: an agreement between you and another party that you will inhabit a given parcel of real estate for a given time. Whether a beachfront barstool or a river cabin with a hot tub, the contract remains the same. You should be kind. You must not be boorish or even difficult.