Over the course of the last few months we have rolled with change. We’ve had our 6 year old house restored to near immaculate condition. New paint, new carpets and spruced up landscaping to enhance the garden that just as it reached its peak of splendour with all the plants having grown to fit the yard just perfectly we must now leave it behind.
There were set backs. The day the realtor came over to look over the house, preparatory to listing it on the market was the same day a small valve leading into the hot water tank in the basement burst, drenching the carpet. Ironically it was also the same day we were getting an estimate on replacing the carpet.
But that was then and this is now. Our house has sold. Our little convoy is stowed on the ferry deck below us. We’re finished. We have boxed up our lives and this is the final leg of the journey to our new home with the last of our possessions.
The contact dermatitis that ravaged my face and made me look like I had chicken pox is healing, as is the gash across the bridge of my nose from where I miss stepped and did a header outside of McDonald’s on one of our earlier moving runs.
An odd mix of grief and excitement tugs at me. I lift my face to the sun basking in its warmth. I am terrified. I have never been apart from my now adult children. I was born and raised on the shores that have now receded from view.
It was upon those shores that I married, bore three children, separated and raised them on my own until I met Jim, a widower and his brood. And so the four of us became seven and two Jim’s children drifted into my life and I into theirs.
When I was a child, for a time we lived in an old farm house on acreage before moving new a nice, new house in a subdivision. I always mourned leaving the old farm house with its hay field, chicken coop, old cow shed, fruit trees and weeping willow tree. The Old House was to me then, my beginning. Today as I look back I realize that life is full of new beginnings, some chosen and other thrust upon us.