Count Down

The good times are all gone... I'm bound for moving on...

Our farewell party brought it home that we'll never have another celebration in this house and never, as Helen said, bring such an eclectic group together again.

I am feeling sad and disagreeable. Everything irks me.

The house is nearly clear and I have cleaned several rooms thoroughly including washing walls and filling nail holes where pictures hung. I want to leave all immaculate. Perhaps to make up for the scuffed floors, shabby carpets, and the numerous little chips of paint missing on baseboards.

I am also battling with the morning glories and blackberry bushes in the garden. No matter the weather, they thrive, multiplying like crazy, threatening to take over the whole back yard.

I remember years ago when three big guys lived in the house and none thought of using the lawn mower, let alone the weedeater unless I begged or bribed. I asked all three if they minded that ours was the messiest garden on the street and all three said no, they didn't care.

How I envied them.

I was the only one who hated the chaos. I am just too middle class, I thought.

And though I admire people with wild gardens and messy houses - which says to me that she or he has more important things to do - I find it difficult to live like this though I did and do to a degree because there is never enough time. And though I could hire casual labour who could do the job faster and better, I always hesitate because I bring in next to no salary and compensate by trying to do everything by myself.

Soon I will no longer have to worry about the upkeep of a house. And a garden. This pleases me immensely.

I'm tired. There is a little over a week to go before the big move and we begin living our dream. It damn well better be worth all this work, I whine.

***

Gill passed on this award to me this morning because I am brilliant and write from the heart. Read the rules and conditions on her site. This is the second award I've won for my blogging and unfortunately, the donor of the other award has locked in her site with a password and I can no longer link you to it.

I am supposed to award and challenge 7 more bloggers who are "brilliant" and link you to her or his site so here they are in alphabetical order:

1. Chris Tyrell

2. Gillian Young

3. Jim Reed

4. Kate Baggott

5. Marlene Schiwy

6. Shirley Rudolph

7. Wenda Nairn

And thirdly, I am to give you 10 truths about myself. (I wrote a long list and will only give you the most interesting, to my mind, but most of my readers will know them. I think it would be more interesting to ask my readers to tell me 10 truths about myself. "Disillusion me with truth," as Saint Teresa d'Avila once said.)

1. I am addicted to nicotine.

2. I am a kind person and more often than not give too much of myself.

3. I love being alone and moving to my own inner clock.

4. I wallow in my own inadequacies and although I have learnt that even the brightest I know are riddled with complexes too, still I sometimes have a hard time picking myself up.

5. I don't like driving a car but hate being driven.

6. I love reading tacky novels but also read my share of good literature.

7. I occasionally go to MacDonalds for breakfast or lunch.

8. I bore easily.

9. I look at my face in the mirror, see I am aging rapidly, and despair. Meanwhile I declare, that I will grow old gracefully.

10. I birthed and raised three extraordinary individuals.

Farewell House Party

There is just too much happening to write coherently at the moment. Soon.

But here's a few pictures of our farewell party. More and more this crazy plan of ours becomes a reality.

This is for Lois

Michael and Mackenzie arrived late Sunday evening with Icabod and Jasmine in their arms. 

Kenzie is now a seasoned driver. She drove every kilometer of the way. 

Today they're off (with Michael behind the wheel) to find a home and jobs. Those two don't waste any time. 

Yesterday Inform came and picked up our furniture and boxes for France. The place is looking quite bare but I like this. I can see what I have to do. And the place becomes less and less ours. 

After tomorrow - a wrap day for Rob - it's his last shooting day today - he will join me for the final clearing, packing, and storing. 

And Saturday, we shall have a farewell party for house. All are welcome. We should play some dance music. There's lots of room to move around. 

I'm movin' on

Sunday morning and I wake up anxious about nothing in particular but I know it has everything to with moving on, with clearing our house of 26 years. 

This is it. We're moving in less than a month and it feels good, right - we no longer need the space, work, or expense of a five-bedroom house. We figure we will have at least half the expenses without a house and one vehicle. 

But I'm doing crazy things. For 2 days I couldn't find my blush and brush. No big deal really but it drove me cray. Where could I have put them? And then yesterday in the shower, I remembered that I had laid my European document holder on the bathroom counter. After wrapping myself in a towel, I checked and there they were. (Showers are funny places, I often remember miniscule detail or find a good line for a story under water.) 

Another stupid thing I did and more dangerous was not paying attention at a four way stop. I pulled ahead as did a young woman opposite me who began shaking her fist.

I must be more careful.

Getting rid of stuff feels like a cleansing. Rob has told me more than once that we don't have to get rid of everything from our past but I find that there is little I'm attached to. I do want my Mont Blanc pen - a 50th birthday present from Rob, and my dancing awards from my teens, my high school necklace, and a UBC ring that my parents gave me when I graduated from university. And I have filled one liquor-store box to the rim with all our photographic memories. I kept ignoring the very personal stuff in my writing cabin, knowing it would be the hardest to sort through and toss. 

Yesterday, I went down to it with the intention of throwing 20 years of journals in the recycling bin. I thought that all they contained where my private moans and groans. But leafing through one, I saw that they are much more. They tell of my travels - where I was when - the moments that made me anxious and those when I was perfectly content. They describe the times I urged myself not to be such a chicken shit and became more daring, and the moments when I crumbled. They tell of love and hate - where some instance or person sparked my fury - where my guts appear on the page. 

I remember another time that I wanted to destroy my journals because I was afraid that someone I loved would read about the times when I hated them. I think it was Susan who told me that I must trust those who are close to me.  

But I should trust them when I'm alive or rather say what I think rather than leave the other person to guess what I'm thinking. There is a passage, in "Middle Passage" by Hollis: "Radical conversation is what a long term commitment is about. With or without a wedding ceremony, true marriage is seldom achieved without radical conversation. Only... the full sharing of what it is to be me while hearing what it is really like to be you, can fulfill the promise of an intimate relationship." 

But I have been afraid sometimes to say what I really think - to Rob and a few others...  even when I know that holding back is bad, not good, does not promote trust, and can erode a relationship

And so what do I do with my journals? I have decided to delay the decision and store them in our Vancouver locker. I will read them slowly when I return and decide their fate then. 

Interesting Process

disassembling the house we've owned for 26 years. Last Saturday we had a garage sale and made around 1700 - a fraction of the value of the goods but still it felt good to lighten the load we'll take to France. 

What are we taking? Sofa, coffee table, bed, and night tables, 3 boxes of books, 2 boxes of photographs (that cover both Rob and my over-60-years), a dozen Irish linen napkins, a tablecloth, and a few kitchen utensils. Oh yes, and Rob's framed awards and a couple of prints. That's it. Well I have to decide about my journals... some are already in France.

Today or Monday, a truck will arrive and take these goods to the shipping company. Once I have the documentation, it will be on its way to France. 

Yesterday Gill and I went to the French consulate to get the necessary documents for French customs. The experience was strange. We stood outside a locked door with a young couple who told us to press the button and state our business. A man came out. We explained what we wanted. He went inside and came out and ask if we had proof that we'd lived in our house in Canada for 7 months. Yes. He went inside and came out. Do we have documents showing we own a house in France. Yes. He went inside and came out again. Do I have a plane ticket. No. I also need a list of items from the shipping company who have yet to pick up the goods. Come back when you have all the documents. He went back inside.

We did not see inside the consulate.

On the way there, there was a dead crow in the middle of the road. Another stood beside it, as if in grief, and when my car approached, it hobbled to the side of the road. When I returned, 3 hours later, the poor bird was still standing guard over the mess of feathers.

Meanwhile, Michael and Mackenzie left Port Hope on Monday sometime late afternoon and are on their way here with all their possessions and 2 cats. No one has heard from them. My parents are anxious. I sent an email asking them to telephone collect.

I am feeling disjointed, like this piece of writing.  

Leaving home

Double click to see pictures full size. 

After Maggie dropped by and let us put the SOLD stickers on our "For Sale" sign, we escaped with my cousin Avril to my friend's Suzanne's property beyond Mount Currie. It's so beautifully quiet and idyllic here. Both Rob and I feel a sense of relief that we can pack our belongings and move on. We're not sure what we're going to do beyond going to France when the money is in the bank and thinking about our options. 

Need I say more?

Can you believe it?

The young couple who want to buy our house have asked for another 48 hours to get their finances in place.

By some miracle, Rob was home yesterday around 2:30 and so we paced together hoping that the end was in sight and that we could begin to do some serious packing. I ironed and watched several movies on my computer to keep myself calm. Rob entertained himself on his computer. 

We had been told that we wouldn't know until after the couple finished work and had time to visit the bank - most likely five or six pm - if the deal was to complete. These hours passed without word. We ordered Chinese food. We paced some more. It wasn't until after eight, that we received their request for more time. It wasn't until after ten that the paperwork was done. 

Of course we gave them the time - after all, we gave the last couple an extra 48 to find their deposit. 

I want to stamp my feet in frustration.  

Feet stomping reminds me of the flamenco dancers, I saw on Friday night with my cousin and Marlene and Steve at the Playhouse.  There were three women soloists and one man. I preferred the women and I especially liked the last performer, Isabel Bayon - a 40 year old Spanish dancer -  a wisp of a woman, which surprised my cousin and I who both imagined this "living legend" would be fleshier, more voluptuous. Still, she stomped, kicked, threw back her head with the strength, hauteur, defiance, of a larger woman who imposes her presence, who knows what she wants and isn't afraid to ask.  And there were moments - like those where her hand swept over a breast or where she turned her back to the audience and crunched her skirt in a fist at her bottom, raising the hem just a little that spoke of wantonness.

And still I wanted more heat, more passion. Perhaps one needs to be a tavern, a dance hall, a more intimate space, to experience flamenco; and not in a tiered seat looking down. 

How long has this been going on?

Since January 27, 2009 - although it feels longer as we had the house on the market for several months last year. In total, we have dropped our price 401,000.

When I hit an emotional low a few days ago, Rob asked how I could complain when I have a house in France. I wonder what one is allowed to complain about when one is as rich as I am (not monetarily.) Later he admitted that he had sunk to the bottom a few days previous.

Think about it. For five months you have to allow a large number of strangers into your home. They can roam where they please, open the doors to your closets and cupboards, pull out bathroom drawers, and examine whatever because you are not there. 

If you were brought up as I was, everything must be spotless, including under the beds. The beds themselves must be without a crease. The bathroom and kitchen sinks and faucets must sparkle. All dust must be gone from the furniture. The garbage must be taken out daily.  And then there's the garden... 

Yes, I did have a month off. Yes, Rob did have to wake half an hour earlier on work days - sometimes 4 am to make sure all was presentable for viewing. And yes, I do resent that three in my family and a good friend were able to sell their houses or apartments within a couple of weeks of listing. No, that's not right. I don't resent their success. I envy them. 

This is terrible. I keep wondering what is wrong with us. Are we such low-lives no one wants our prized possession? Is it our prized possession? I don't know but it is our most valuable one (monetarily.)

We have another good offer, subject to inspection and deposit. The subject-removal date is Monday, July 6th. 

Does the waiting get easier? 

No. 

Deal is null and void

The potential buyers have not been able to gather a deposit so the deal is off.

Here we go again. Last night two couples came through the house. Today two more. 

House selling saga continues

Yesterday I was a mess of energy, trying not to worry about house deal. 

At around two in the afternoon, I heard that the couple want the house, will take off the "subject to inspection" but didn't have the deposit money. I thought this irresponsible but Helen told me that once she was in a similar position - so much to think about when purchasing a house that she forgot about the deposit.  

The potential buyers have until 5 pm on Thursday to find the money otherwise the deal is null and void. 

So the waiting continues...

Flying

On Friday, returning from Albi I drove by a field of sunflowers with faces open to the sun - the first I've seen this year.

On Saturday, I flew to Vancouver via London into Rob's arms. Later that evening, my amazing Gill came home to welcome me. 

I didn't intend to come home until July 3rd but we had another offer on the house, a good offer, that included a personal letter. Gill just happened to drop in during the original viewing, and told the prospective buyers that she had been born into the house and showed them round telling the house's history through memories of her childhood. In the buyer's letter, he said that they found Gill's stories "comforting and reassuring" as he and his wife want to raise their children in such a home. "As a writer myself, I fell in love with the 'writer's cabin' and my wife, who is also an artist, loved the feeling of your house." 

Yesterday, an official inspector came through our home, digging into every nook and cranny in order to alert the buyers of any potential problem. The couple and their real estate agent joined him.

On Tuesday, the buyers have to give us a yeah or nay. If it's a yes, they want to move in July 11th and that's why I flew home early. I hope that they are the people we've been waiting for. 

The first man in my life

I wish I may, I wish I might

Have the wish I wish tonight

I want our house sold at a fair price. We have had two offers that have fallen through. We are negotiating a third. We have another viewing today and three more tomorrow and all the worrying is eating away at my gut. I hate it. We may have to take the house off the market and wait for better times and the only problem with doing this is that we'll have to go through this process all over again. 

So I wish that our house sells at a fair price soon. 

Come what may, I'm flying home July 3rd. 

He's my man

Our song. 

Here we go again

We have another offer on the house - not as good as the last one but good enough. Sometime Friday the subject will be removed, or not, and Rob and I will know if we'll be able to lead a simpler life with no more invasive tours of our home. 

It's harder on Rob at this time as he's working impossible hours - one day he had to leave at 4:30 am and still he had to rise earlier to make sure all was proper. So I'm hoping more for his sake than mine that the inspection will prove the house worthy and we can move on, though money will not change hands until September 3rd.

No matter what happens, I fly to Toronto July 3rd, and will be back in Vancouver soon after.  

To everything there is a season

a time for every purpose under the sun...

The other evening, we had friends for dinner and Marlene created the substance - a potato and chickpea curry. (She is a wonder in the kitchen, can make something delicious from anything, refusing to waste - even the tops of the green onions.)

We began the evening at Ruth's artistically renovated houses - two ancient dwellings linked with a short staircase from kitchen to dining area - with kirs and tiny squares of bread topped with tapinade, cheese, and olives. 

I  left a few minutes early to add the finishing touches to our casual dinner. Plates and cutlery are placed en masse on the table, food on the island so our guests won't feel stuck in one place and can circulate.

I don't know about anyone else but I loved the evening. This may sound corny (I can hear Susan sigh) but there is something special about each individual who gathered this evening, speaking French, German, and English, representing Scotland, England, Switzerland, Germany, the United States, and Canada, who share a love for this tiny village, music and literature, good food and conversation. There is no pretention. Silliness and seriousness abound. 

This morning I sit on the terrace wondering what to do with myself. Brendan is down three flights of stairs working. Marlene is down one flight. Although this house isn't large, there is easily enough room for the three of us to live and work and not disturb each other.

I am the only one not doing serious work. I think now worrying about our West Van home is futile. Finally I accept that it may take some time to sell, or may not sell this time round. (Rob and I have decided we will rent it if nothing happens in the next month.) I have to move on and do something but what?  I am not sure but I realize after several days of proprioceptive writing that I am not content being just a cleaner of houses. I need more - some work that excites me. Money would be nice but I've never been successful at making money. Though this pisses me off and often makes me feel like excess baggage, I have to admit that it has never been a priority. And it is too late to work my way up the corporate ladder. I could take some job, any job, for a pittance to make something...

I feel like a bore. What would inspire me, spark my passion for words beyond Scrabble on Facebook? I tell myself I'm improving my vocabulary but I know, deep down, that I am procrastinating, avoiding the real work of writing. 

I don't know where to begin. I don't like what I've done so far with my novel. It's too contrived, not rich, too ponderous, not full of fun and laughter. It's boring. I am too heavy, too weighed down, putting emphasis on all the wrong things - like my incessant cleaning for one - spending hours on things that I could accomplish in one concentrated hour. How do I move away from this behavioral pattern? Perhaps I shall tie myself to a chair. 

Since turning sixty, I have been aware of time and how quickly it is gone, how little I have left. Ruth spoke of going to an island, learning how to die... and I see that I fear death, not finding myself, leaving before I have done what I want to do. I'm driving myself crazy but what if I have to be more crazy, let go of control, to do what I ache to do?  

Somehow the body has got lost in the housework. I imagine that I have a choice. I can have a sparkling clean house, a home that others covet, desire, would give anything to have. Or I can spend one glorious afternoon in the orgasm tent of Ruth's story - with my true love. 

Which would you prefer?

 

By the Beautiful Sea

Eight hours after leaving Castelnau, Marlene and I arrive at the fishing village of Les Saintes Maries de la Mer. Michael tells me that Van Gogh painted here. It is beautiful but too stinking hot and my only  concern is to find our hotel. We weave our way through town slowly. Modern caravans are everywhere, parked in clusters around the water and throughout the town's narrow streets, sometimes taking two or three parking spots. Cars are tucked into every other available space - some legal, some not. A steady stream of pedestrians adds to the congestion.

We finally find our hotel and go to our respective rooms to freshen up. I had caught my usual flying cold and feel stuffed and lacking in energy but I cannot sit still. Here the sequence of events grows hazy.

We did wander through the town's streets that first night and did stop to eat in one central restaurant. I had moules et frites (mussels and fries) and Marlene taurus (?) bull steak and fries, a regional dish. The waiters and waitresses literally ran from table to table to kitchen so maniacally, my head was spinning and I could not relax, but still I was excited to be in this gypsy haven. (Wished unkindly and unreasonably that so many tourists  had not found their way here.) 

The next morning, we enjoy a quiet breakfast in the hotel garden and walk the few blocks to the town's chapel where I hope to catch some gypsy magic. Again we face crowds but there is music in the air and we stop to listen to "Karpatz" an ensemble - 8 beautiful dark men - who seduce us with their gypsy tunes. One woman spins through the audience, twirling a scarf around her head.  Marlene buys one of their CDs. (When I searched the internet for information about the group, I find that they are from Ukraine, Hungary, and Romania and "are all proud not to deny their Romani culture.")

We visit the chapel and Saint Sara's crypt (click on first picture) and then find a low stone wall in partial shade at the back of church to listen to a jazz duet. After a salad lunch, we return to our hotel to rest, before the procession of Saint Sarah. Thank the heavens, we had seen the statue earlier in the day, as it was impossible to see her facial features at our vantage point as she was carried - though elevated - through the crowds. Here I feel ignorant and sacrilegious. Sarah is a dark-skin-coloured doll with a tipsy crown wearing numerous sparkling fabric cloaks. I am intrigued by the devotion she inspires and yet know that she is a symbol of something that I can't quite grasp. Still I am happy to have witnessed the event. 

The next day, the two saint Marys will have their procession to the water. Unfortunately my cold is still stealing my energy so we do not leave the hotel late evening to witness the reported roma music and dancing in the streets. 

Though we leave for home early the next day, Marlene and I are not unhappy to miss the bulls charging through the streets (the thought scares me) and have agreed that we will return another year. 

 

Dream Squished

Poor Marlene has had to live with me as I've paced and agonized about our West Vancouver home. For the first time, we had a decent offer and the people seemed ideal. He's a journalist. She's an artist. They visited the house three times. Their only subject was the usual official inspection by a professional. 

I learned at 1 a.m. that they're not going to remove the subject. They said that it would cost too much to renovate to accommodate their 4 children. I'm pissed off. They must have seen this from the beginning. I even mentioned it to the real estate agent. But there is nothing I can do but mope.

Everyone's house except ours seems to be selling. My sister and sister-in-law sold their houses within days of listing. Another family member just bought a house. 

Oh woe is me. I know. I know. Here I am in the south of France, sitting in Rob's office, taking in the sun that's especially glorious and warming on the terrace that looks over an equally glorious valley of multi-coloured green fields, spotted with clusters of trees. In the distance I can see the Midi Pyrenees.  I have just come back from a trip to the Mediterranean. How can I whine over one little old house deal? 

So here we go again. I can't make plans because I don't know what is going to happen. We may have to rent the house in WV. Our dream of simplifying our lives is once again put on hold.