I dreamt all night of strange events that included my stored up belongings left at a friend’s had gone missing in an earthquake. Perhaps its my conscience that has been over-consumed with the idea of leaving half of my life packed in boxes on the west coast of BC while I shift and shuffle the little I do have in this tiny apartment. Of all the organized and well-orchestrated cross Canada moves in my life, this one has been the least orderly. I am missing my kitchen items, clothing, footwear, flowerpots and photos. And they’ve all been packed in boxes for so long that I’m actually getting used to living without them. When they finally do arrive I’m not certain where I’ll put the 30 something pile of cartons and boxes. After all, I seem to be getting by with the Canadian Tire set of dishes and life simplified. And though I did give up my Swiss Army knife for a Kitchen Aid corkscrew opener, it still can’t compare to the one packed away at the bottom of one of those boxes.
Recently, my neighbour from across the hall showed up at my door with a beautiful set of Mikasa glassware, a salad spinner and a food steamer, as they were overloaded with wedding gifts still in the purchased boxes from over a year ago. She had duplicates that she couldn’t use that were non-returnable in Canada and was tight on storage. She, her husband and little one are living in overcrowded quarters in an apartment the same size as mine. I gladly accepted and handed her $50 for the items and told her to take the family out for ice cream. She in her friendly New Jersey laugh accepted the funds said she’d take me shopping in her hometown of New York someday. In an instant we were neighbor friends sharing conversations in the hallway, parking lot and laundry room. I soon met the French couple from upstairs that recently had a new baby boy, the Polish couple and their 11-year-old daughter below with their orange kitten, the New Brunswick train mechanic on the top floor and the French house painter in the basement. These friendly people, employed, polite and clean are my apartment family in the six-plex at the bottom of my childhood street that I call home. I am blessed with the reality that my building sleeps at proper hours at night; there are no loud crazy people and no tenant issues to contend with. And though its old and the hardwood floors creak and I’ve yet to discover if the radiator heating works; I’m making the best of all of it.
Having been both the humble and proud owner of five family homes, builder of three which included a custom built home on five acres; with moves from Toronto to Vancouver, Vancouver to Halifax, Halifax to Vancouver and No-Mans-Land, BC to Toronto; a few moves under my belt were proven experience in how to be a good neighbor. Only here I don’t cut grass, shovel snow, pay taxes, wash windows, repair appliances or order new hot water heaters. There is no unplugging the central vac from Lego pieces, loading and unloading a dishwasher, covering the swimming pool or taking the garbage out to the curb. It’s an adjustment, and I often find myself sweeping the stairs in the hallway, cleaning up any paper from the front yard, junking the junk mail and putting bricks on top of the outside garbage bins in an effort to sway the raccoons. I can’t help it. I do miss my gardening and a place to stoop with a book under trees. But there is a yard here and I do have a lawn chair and perhaps its time I learned to manage an indoor plant or two. In short, life has become quite simplified. There is less to clean, less to wash, less to shop for and less to worry about. The divorce drama has subsided and the pain is just a memory. I do miss my children terribly. And in an uncomplicated stupor I work to maintain the important relationships with my two adult children and the younger one not quite yet in his teens. Though we are often far apart the reality is the bond and connectivity is something that cannot be broken.
In the end the reality is, I have a home, an excellent job; I have my family, and my hometown back in my life along with all the familiar people, places and things. Fourteen years away from here has been a journey; I’ve had to relearn roadways, traffic patterns, transit systems and the vastness of change that’s overtaken huge portions of the area. But all in all I’ve come home to my favourite places, people and things. And as I have, one day my children will come home too. In just a few short weeks one of the three will arrive in Toronto and call it home as college beckons him to the place from which he was born. Home is where the heart is and the boxes of belonging will follow.
wordsoulographicgirl 