I went back to work on Wednesday after being off for just over two weeks and originally thought that my absence would have gone unnoticed but a lot of my peers were quick to welcome me back and ask about my time off. Word quickly got around that I had moved and when I was talking to one colleague of mine, she looked at me very seriously and asked if I knew that a move was considered to be the third worst ordeal to go through in life, first being a death and second being a divorce.
I have no problem believing that and my response to her was that I would never, ever move again. I’m now more than prepared to spend the next 50+ years in this house, and have the ceiling falling down around me and the foundation crumble beneath my feet before I even consider moving again.
I can’t bare to relive the move here but suffice it to say the hilights of the move were spending an entire day taping the rooms we were going to paint and then 3 days later, after the painting was finished, when we removed the tape, along with it came big chunks of paint from the ceiling. Out came the step ladder, some very tiny brushes that Tay used to use when working on model cars and the can of primer we used in one of the bedrooms and my mother and I spent the afternoon before the move touching up the areas on the ceiling where the paint chipped off. The move itself didn’t start until 2pm the next day (after we had driven downtown to buy and pick up some furniture) and lasted until 2am, and included a torrential downfall, two truckloads and our sofa that didn’t fit into the basement.
The days following the move were a blur of boxes getting unpacked and more boxes getting brought in as we went back and forth to Ikea and Linens N’ Things, buying all the essential things that we had always needed but had always put off buying until we had a house of our own. It seemed just as we’d get one room organized, we’d turn around and more things had reappeared. On Thursday my mother and I packed my car with snacks and my ipod/stereo combination, rubber gloves and grubby clothes and headed over to the other house to clean it for the last time. We cleaned until 7 that night, scrubbing floors and toilets, wiping down baseboards, doors and frames. We were back there the next morning by 10am to finish up and stayed until 7 that night – Tay had arranged to have a garbage bin delivered to the house to cart away the junk that had accumulated over the years and as I stared at the pile in the garage, waiting to be disposed of, I wanted to weep from exhausation and frustration. When our friend Dave called and I answered the phone, I described it as possibly the single worst day of my life.
And no, I don’t really think I was exaggerating.
At 10pm that night we walked through the house for the last time, shiny and bright in it’s emptiness and I felt a twinge of sadness to be leaving after having lived there for almost 9 years. I shut the door behind me and looked back at the house once in my rearview mirror.
Things have been on a gradual upswing since then as all our things are finally in the house, and we eased ourself back into a routine of sorts. I started getting more then 6 hours of sleep at night and slowed things down a bit. Went for a couple of runs through the parks and along the ravine in the neighborhood. Hung some artwork, put clean towels in all the bathrooms, soaked in the BIG tub and cooked my first meals in the kitchen that was mine, on the stove that we owned.
On Sunday afternoon, I heard from our friend Dave that he’d heard on the radio that the brand new train station was schedule to open on Tuesday morning. I was returning to work on Wednesday and was already fretting about taking a new transit system into the city, and having to go to a train station that wasn’t going to be my regular station. I was stressing about how long it would take to get there, would traffic be bad and would I find parking and what would happen if I missed my train. We knew the new station was due to open but the sign said the fall, and when I heard it was opening the day before I started back to work, I couldn’t believe my luck.
The new station is a 3 minute drive from our house with only one stop light. I’ve taken the train every day this week – next week I’ll do the walk home from the station just because I can and and expect that it’ll take not much more than 15 minutes or so . It’s a 45 minute trip into the city and the hush on the train is almost like being in a church or a library as commuters sit and read papers, books or doze in the highbacked seats. The walk from the station while frantic at first with the Bay Street crowd, thins out the further northwest I travel and it’s pleasant while the weather is warm. In the winter, when the snow and cold comes, I can do the majority of it through the underground paths, windowshopping along the way. They’re still doing construction on the parking lot and in the station itself, the platform is gravelled with temporary fencing but as far as I’m concerned, it’s the best train station EVER, being so close to a Smart Centre, the grocery store, my gym and of course the house.
I even like the name of the sation, Lisgar, it’s surely better than all the rest, but I pronounce it with the GO part attached, as one long word, LisgarGO because it sounds better that way. Kind of like escargot, only better.