Author: Maggie Page 7 of 8

How many people, at any given moment, are on the move around the world? This was a question posed by Trevor, my brother in law, while waiting for our train in Kings Cross station to take us back to Durham. We had just observed a group of people who were standing in front of screens displaying train information begin to move towards their train because the platform had just been posted.

We began musing, Kings Cross, St Pancras, Euston, Victoria, Liverpool Street, Paris, Munich, Rome, Florence, Venice, Vienna, New York, Toronto, Chicago and on and on and on. All would be busy moving people, just by train, never mind by planes and automobiles. When my friend Anne and I walked home from Wearside Girls Grammar School back in the 70’s we passed three pubs called The Travellers Rest, and no they were not a chain. They were old local pubs, and I guess at one point, inns. We humans move around, but when did it speed up to the rate it is today? Certainly not too much when I was a kid. Going to “the continent” was a big deal back then, at least for our class, or strata of society, and much less for the solid hardworking working class. A week in the same boarding house in Blackpool or Scarborough each year, or perhaps, if they were ambitious, a week at Butlins Holiday Camps. How I wanted to go there as a kid!

Durham, Newcastle and Sunderland are a stones throw from each other, in a rough triangle, I would say less than 15 miles apart, but each has a distinct accent, language even, indicating a certain insularity or isolation of the population. Now people from the north east travel the world, frequently. Since I have been part of the pilates class, the knit and natter group and the gym girls I have lost count of how many holidays I have heard about. To Thailand, Mexico, Finland, New York, a 26 day cruise including Mauritius, Jordan and Petra, and through the Suez Canal to Venice. Also skiing in Switzerland, the Canary Islands, and more I can’t remember. Many of them have travelled to visit friends in Canada they are very happy to tell me. All taking planes, had to work that in somewhere.

I really enjoy Niagara Falls, both the Canadian and the U.S. side. Years ago I devoured Pierre Burtons book about Niagara and remember reading about the development of tourism there. It began with the Erie Canal, which was more comfortable than stage coach, but it picked up tremendously with the advent of trains. All of a sudden people could come and see the awe-inspiring cataract and cascade (terms used back then to describe the falls) after a relatively quick train ride from Toronto, Buffalo, New York and it became the honeymoon capital of north america. It also became a side show to the taverns, brothels, hotels, fun houses, wax works museums, and gambling houses that lined the Canadian side of the gorge. Hotels paid off horse and carriage operators to bring tourists from the train to their establishment where they would then be charged for going through the hotel to see the falls. An early tourist rip-off. Something had to be done. The Ontario premier asked for proposals from the railway companies to develop the area and clean up the less than respectable establishments. Yes, he asked the railway companies, because they were the ones that were bringing the people. It became a political debacle and eventually he had to back track. He asked Casimir Gzowski, great grand father of the much loved CBC radio presenter, Peter Gzowksi, to come up with a plan to get him out of hot water. He suggested making the area into a public park. The premier was aghast. Spend tax payers money to provide public space for Canadians and tourists to enjoy, pay for its upkeep and make no money from it! He initially resisted, but the issue was such a hot potato that he eventually agreed. So now the whole gorge side space is part of the first (I think) Canadian park, The Niagara Parks Commission, and he was the first commissioner. All the side shows have moved to Clifton hill, out of sight of the falls.

The American side of the falls was a different story. The water was seen as sources of power for industry, and it was siphoned off upstream for manufacturing. Aluminium, which needs a lot of energy in its manufacture, was produced there, creating a whole world of cheap aluminium product. Other industries flocked to the area to take advantage of the cheap power, and most of them poured their industrial wastes into the gorge. The scars are still visible on the sides of the gorge. The only area not developed was Goat Island, the large island separating the American and Horseshoe (Canadian) Falls. The owner refused all offers and it still grows the native fauna and flora of the region, and is a great place to see the full sweep of the Horseshoe Falls. All kinds of canals were built to siphon the water, and one became infamous, Love Canal. Houses were built on top of it, and it was full of all kinds of chemicals. It poisoned the people who lived in the houses. What a mess!

This is a bit long, and not many pictures, but I hope you are still reading along. Sally, Trev and I did our own little jaunt on Saturday afternoon, a sedate pub crawl, not like the days of our youth. We went to four pubs, all old when I was still a kid, and still in operation. The Shakespeare on Saddler Street, The Half Moon on New Elvet, The Dun Cow on Old Elvet

and The Victoria on Hallgarth Street. Half a pint in each. The biggest difference now – instead of Double Diamond bitter, and Vaux breweries producing crap beer they now offer local craft ales, cask conditioned (among other commercial beers). Yea.

Just five days ’til I get on the boat. After all the planning and talking about it as a future event it is upon me, upon us. The first week: Sally, Trev, Lucien, my nephew and his girlfriend Dani, the second week, my first Canadian friends, Sue and Katherine of moving day fame. Can’t wait, but also nervous.

p.s. If you ever want a guided tour of Niagara, bring your passports and I will show you around, Canadian and US side.

p.p.s. Casimir and Peter Gzowski are famous Canadians. Worth a look up in my humble opinion.

Not so many quirky insights on the blog so far, but lots of reminiscences.  I have heard from some that it has stirred their own memories so I hope you will indulge me again.  About our dining room table.  Yes, a table.

I had been at Sally’s for a short while when we bought fabric at a Sewing and Knitting show (that was more like Toronto’s One of a Kind than “do it yourself”).  We then borrowed a sewing machine and I started to sew.  While sewing one day it suddenly hit me, almost as a physical sensation, that I was sewing on the table that I sewed on as a kid, alongside my Mom.  It took my breathe away.

I have always loved that table, and it has so many memories associated with it.  My parents got it second hand from the rectory in our village.  It must have been the kitchen table, it certainly was not built for fine dining.  The vicar smoked and he left the cigarettes burning on the edge of the table.  I remember the marks as a kid, but now they are erased by years of use.  As a kid I wanted Mom (Dad was not “handy”) to sand it down and vanish it but now I am glad that it hasn’t been touched.  Goodness knows how the wood was treated when the table was first made, but there is none of it left now.  Just wood polished by age.

Sewing machine in action!

Coming home from school you never knew what Mom might be creating on that table.  She tried her hand at so many crafts including putting pebbles on the outside of bottles to make lamps, wrapping string dipped in plaster of Paris around balloons to make lamp shades.  Cutting red ribbon into poinsettias.  We couldn’t get poinsettias in England and she loved them from her Canadian childhood.  Or she could be cleaning the copper kettles and silverware and believe it or not we would excitedly join her!  Mad!  And of course, she sewed, and I learned.

It had to be a big table to sit seven people at a regular meal, and more when we had company, and we often had company.  How many Sunday roast dinners did we eat around that table.  Dad carving, Mom serving.  Always roast potatoes, roast parsnips (yum), Yorkshire puddings, veg and gravy.  Then pushing back the chairs and talking and talking.  So many meals, at least dinner as a family, or tea as we called the evening meal, and lunch if there was no school.  We always ate together and it is something I still love to do, share meals around a table.

Dad’s chair

Jane got the table when Mom and Dad no longer needed it and it was the childhood table of my nephews, Edmund and Lucien.  Another generation of memories. And we all continued to sit around it when we gathered at Janes.  Extended to its full length with the extra leaves.  The table is opened with a hand crank!  Jane had her own table made, much like the original, nice and wide, and the original now resides with Sally and Trevor, and it still hosts lively meals.

Sally’s Knit and Natter group around the table

Clearly I am delightedly following in my Mom’s footsteps and love to try new hand skills and crafts.  I am really enjoying turning water smoothed pebbles, and now some glass, into jewellery, and have bought a dremel and drill press over here in England and am merrily drilling away.  I actually brought stones from the shores of Lake Ontario and Sally’s friends at her gym bought quite a few pieces for Christmas presents.  Loving that the stones came from the Great Lakes.

Great Lakes stones, from the shores of Lake Ontario

Now I am about to start on pebbles and glass picked up on Seaham Harbour beach, where we usually went on Boxing Day for a walk.  Mom would walk along with her head down searching for coloured glass.  Red being her favourite, and of course hard to find.

Seaham Harbour beach. Can’t wait to drill, polish and make jewellery from the pebbles I collected. Great colours and formations. Some very small, smooth old bricks!

I have really enjoyed being back in my old home town, and at New Year Sally, Trevor, Jane, Martin and I were tourists in our own city.  We went for a walk around the sites that Durham has to offer.

Durham Town Hall in the Market Place.

Durham has a very old covered market under the town hall, a fixture from my youth, and now much better than it was then!

“The Horse”, a much used meeting place in Durham market place. I have just learned that he was the owner of most of the mines in the north east, Lord Londonderry. Rich off the backs of the miners who often died from pneumoconiosis, probably not spelled correctly, black lung disease.

This building on Silver Street looks like it is Tudor or older.  The bricks have replaced the original wattle and daub that formed the original walls put in place after the oak frame was hoisted into position, layer by layer.

Silver Street looking down to Framwellgate Bridge. The same building on the right as the last picture.

When I was growing up double decker busses went up and down Silver Street, and through the market place.  The stores had false fronts covering up the old buildings, which now thankfully have been removed, revealing more of the history of this more than one thousand year old city.

Love the eccentric little addition over Elvet Bridge.  Was it originally a toilet, going straight into the river, just as they did in old castles?

The Rose Window, carved stone screen and Nave of Durham Cathedral. Each pair of columns is different.

The Normans began building the Cathedral in 1093.  William the Conqueror used the endorsement of the Pope to legitimize his rule, so he reinforced it by building cathedrals and churches.  Durham was built on solid rock which has stood it in good stead, and has not required the buttressing that other cathedrals have needed due to poor foundations.  It still costs more than one million pounds per year to maintain!  It must have been quite an impressive sight for those attending who lived in unlighted, smoke filled, one story buildings with small windows and probably no glass, just oiled fabric.  And smelly to boot.

Sally and Trevor have welcomed me into their life, just as Jane and Martin did when I first arrived.  Or at least they are putting up with me for the duration without complaint!  It will be ten weeks with Sally and Trevor when I get on the boat on February 2nd, a long time to host a guest.  I have joined Sally’s gym and am doing pilates three times a week and working out four times a week.  Yes, me!  As well as joining some of Sally’s friends at Swingfit on Friday morning.  What a blast, following the teachers moves to old big band music and songs.  Stormy Weather, Mac the Knife, New York New York.  I have learned about 60% of the steps, the rest I just fumble along.  Sally’s friends have included me in their events, and I am thoroughly enjoying my time here, despite the damp weather.  Last week four of us went to York for the day, took the train.  Had humus and pita for lunch in a once Roman town, and then Yorvic, the capital of Daneslaw, when the Vikings ruled much of the east coast of Britain.  That was news to me, I know the Vikings raided over the centuries, but I did not remember or ever knew that they ruled.  Canute was a Viking king.  Who knew!

Carolle, Sally and Chris on the Roman wall around York. York Minster is in the background.

Just a few more weeks before the next phase, on the water, begins.  It will fly by, and I need to get organized.  Again.  This week we are going to London to visit with Ed, Laura and Ruben, my great nephew, whom I have only met once, but feel I know through all the pictures forwarded to me by Sally or Jane.  The wonders of modern technology.  The adventure continues.

Dad, 1941. 19 years old. Miami

Sometimes, when I speak to my siblings about events from our childhood, I wonder if we grew up in the same family.  There is almost ten years difference between the first and last child, and that spread of ages surely changes the way that we perceive events.  And then there are assumptions we make from the “facts” that we grew up with.  It was only recently that I found out that Dad did not get his PhD from Cambridge, but from University College, London.  He just completed it in Cambridge.  The daughter of Dads best friend sent us a link to his dissertation that is now available in its intact original typed format online.  I wonder if Mom typed it.  They had four kids so she was busy, but they also did not have much money.  The cover page said University College, London.   I was born in Cambridge while my Dad completed his doctorate, and of course I assumed that he had done his studies there.  Why not, it seemed logical to me.  Older siblings told me that the whole family had moved from London to Cambridge in 1956 on the strength of a part time teaching contract there, it might even have been a night class.  (My siblings will correct me again if I am wrong).  This news kind of rocked my world!  My memory was a myth, and yet my self image, or self story, is based on what I believed to be who my parents family were, and the stories that I knew about them.  When something like this comes along the whole structure of the stories has to shift a bit to accommodate the new information.

Mom and Dad rarely talked about their young adulthood which was during World War 2.  Mom was nineteen when it began, and Dad 17,  Mom in Toronto, and Dad in Hexham, or was is Prudhoe, north east England.  Did they agree never to talk about the past?  I have no idea.  Or were they just too busy being parents to five children and it no longer seemed important or relevant.

Mom was an adventurous woman.  She went to Washington during the war and worked for the British Army there.   I went to Washington a few years ago and found the apartment building Mom had lived in, even managed to see inside the apartment.  How strange it was to know I had ridden the same elevator as she had, and looked out the same windows.  At the end of the war Mom sailed to England.  The family story is that it was to marry a man called Peter, but changed her mind when she got there.  When I spoke to my Aunt about this she said, no, Mom just wanted to go to England, she never really intended to marry him.  So who knows.  She did use her sisters wedding dress when she married my Dad.  I always imagined that she brought it with her, it was just after Shirley got married, but now I wonder if my Grandmother brought it when she came for the wedding.  An unsolved, and unsolvable mystery.  Just as well it is not very important.

August 30th, 1947

Dad enlisted right out of high school.  That way he got to choose which branch he joined.  He chose the Air Force, and I am sure because of his love of maps he trained to become a navigator.  He would have been a navigator on a bomber.  My myth: that Dad did not want to drop bombs on people so said he was air sick so couldn’t fly.  Reality:  Yes, he said, some of that was true, but also, and more importantly, bomber crews did not have a great survival rate, and he wanted to survive the war.  Another reality shift for me.  There was a bomber commander called Bomber Harris that Dad said  was known as Butcher Harris because he seemed reckless with mens’ lives.  Dad spent the war in the map room.  Traveled across north Africa and was in Italy when the war ended.

When I visited home after moving to Canada, and if Dad and I were in London together we would have a day out.  Once we went to see Westminster Abbey only to find that it was closed for a private event or some such thing.  So we wandered around that area.  Looked at the Houses of Parliament.  Across the road from the house is a statue of Boudica on her chariot with horses rearing.  A magnificent sight.  She was the Queen of the Britains who fought the Romans when Nero was Emperor.  I went to look for a postcard of the statue, and there was not one to be found.  Lots of postcards of young men with coloured mohawks, but not Boudica.  Dad and I then walked along the south embankment of the Thames and he told me the whole story of the early days of our family.  How he had studied while Mom worked, then the kids came along.  I dearly wish I had written it all down when it was fresh in my mind because now I don’t remember the details.  But I do remember asking where Dad had proposed to Mom because I knew it was on the embankment.  He pointed across the river to Cleopatra’s Needle.  I asked what she said, and her reply had been “I wish you had not asked me that”.  OK, that does not sound promising.  Apparently she had been saving to return to Canada.  I can’t say I blame her.  She lived with her Aunt in a house with no heating except an open fireplace, the country was still on rations and would be for many more years, it was cold and damp and she was a long way from close family.  But, obviously, she said yes.

When I was thinking of writing this posting (I really don’t like the word blog!), the above is not what was on my mind.  Now I understand why novelists say that characters they have created start taking on a life of their own and the authors have to work around that.  I was going to weave stories around our family Christmas photographs which my parents sent as Christmas cards.  There are hardly any pictures of our childhoods.  Mom and Dad were not photographers, I don’t even remember a camera.  But once a year there was a photo session, one was chosen and mailed out.  Often the clothes were only ever worn that day, especially in the early years, and Mom tried to make us beautiful or maybe just presentable, by cutting our hair and sometimes curling it. Yikes.  Here is a selection.  If I was tech savvy it would be a slide show…..

Xmas 1959. Not the picture used for the card

I am child number 4.  When I look at this picture I always first think I am Jane who is holding Sally.

Xmas 60. Loved that dress. Note the wall paper!

Xmas 1962. I was trying to get on my Dads knee. This is the pic they used. Mom knit her sweater and made Dad’s smoking jacket.

Xmas 1964. The classic family shot by a professional photographer, Hector Innes. He had it in his shop window in Kelso, Scotland for years apparently. Loved that wall paper.

Xmas 1971. Dad had grown out his short back and sides. One of my first knitting projects.

All the best of the season, and for 2019.  Yes, 19 years since the Millenium!

Lindisfarne is an island off the north east coast of England, and the home of a monk called Cuthbert who lived in the mid 600s.  Lindisfarne is a completely undefendable island and the abbey there was eventually abandoned after repeated assaults by Vikings.  Cuthbert, who was dead and a saint by the time the island was abandoned, was dug up and dragged all over the countryside until, legend has it, he indicated that his bones should come to rest in what is now Durham.  I am sure that the monks who were carrying him all over the place also noted that it was highly defendable, being a hill on an oxbow in the River Wear.  Only a small neck of land had to be defended against any marauding foes.

And so Durham came to be.  The original church was eventually replaced by the magnificent cathedral built by the last successful invaders of Britain, the Normans.

Iconic view of Durham Cathedral

If you have seen a picture of Durham Cathedral is is very likely to be this view, and it has special meaning for our family.  The window on the top left hand side of the building on the river bank was our Dad’s office.  He had two windows, this one, looking across the river, and around the side of the building another one that looked down the river.  It was the Department of Archeology of Durham University and Dad was a lecturer in Roman History there.  In North America he would have been called a Professor but here only department heads are called professors.  The building was a fulling mill, and is, of course, called The Old Fulling Mill.  The weir across the river held back water so that the river could power the mill wheel.  I never thought about the name, never wondered what fulling actually was.  Only recently I found out that fulling is the process of making felt!  Talk about circles in life, I now make felt, but without the aid of a mill and water wheel.

I grew up on a subdivision.  Funny to call it that because I certainly did not think of it that way when I was a kid.  It was called an estate back then.

1 Grange Road, brand new in 1957

I too had two windows in my room, the two that you can see on the extension on the side of the house, but I shared it with  two sisters until I was 14 when Jane left home for medical school.  Sally moved into Jane’s room, which she moved into when Mary left home for bilingual secretarial course at London College.  The oldest girl and only boy got their own rooms and the others had to share, but it was a big room.  I loved having it to myself!

1968 or 69 Christmas card picture

Besides having a cathedral and an ancient university Durham also has a castle.  You may assume it was for the local lord, but no, it was for the Bishop of Durham, who was in effect, the local ruler, and for a while Durham was known as the Land of the Prince Bishops.  The castle is now a residence for students at the university, as is much of the old city of Durham.  It is rumoured that the Marks and Spencers store just off the market place, which shocked me when I heard it had been closed, is being converted to student housing.  Even Durham is not immune to the effects of big box stores being built on the outskirts of towns, and city centres being gutted.  So sad.  The end of another era for Durham.

Besides being the land of the Prince Bishops, the site of a famous Cathedral, the home of Englands 3rd University it is also the centre of coal mining in the north east.

Miners Gala, Durham

As a child I felt we had a foot in each of two worlds.  Dad taught at the university, but his father had been a chemist in a coal mine, testing coal.  When Dad was about to enter Grammar School the mine owners cut his fathers wage in half.  No wonder coal miners unions become so powerful.  In the seventies they managed to prevent deliveries of coal to power stations and England experienced enforced power cuts on a rotating schedule until the strike was resolved.  Can you imagine enforced power cuts due to a strike today?  I can hear the screams demanding “back to work” legislation!  And of course, places like Walmart ensure that wages are so low that they are barely above the poverty line.

Coal mining is as much  a deeply ingrained part of the psyche of the north east of England as cod fishing is in Newfoundland, even though both are now long gone as a way of life.  The Miners Gala is still held in Durham every July, and the tradition of the brass bands, hand painted banners and political speeches continue to this day.

This is the same street as the previous picture, Elvet and Elvet Bridge, a street I have walked up and down many hundreds of times.

So many memories stirred by being here, and so many places to visit.  Seaham Harbour, Hadrians Wall, York……………

Janes home, now with Martin

Look at that clear sky and brilliant sunshine!  We had many days like this while I was there.  We had to open the conservatory door to cool off while sewing!

When Jane bought this house with Simon many years ago it was in bad need of repair, and over the years Jane has worked on pretty much every room and added some.  I remember the heaved concrete floor in the kitchen that was right in front of the stove.  Made cooking interesting!  The right hand peak is at least 225 years old, and the left peak 125 years old.  The ceilings are very low, we humans used to be shorter.  Janes’ 6’5″ and 6’4″ sons can barely stand up, and have to duck to go through doorways.  Jane added to downstairs bathroom, on the right, and the room in shadow at the back of the house, and together with Martin added the wonderful new conservatory.  It rounds the house out beautifully.  They have pv electric panels, solar hot water panels and ground source heat.  They are doing their bit for the planet.

On to Little Star

The owners of the boat left it open for us to explore.  I was as excited as a kid!

Trying out the drivers seat

Trevor reading up on the boat rules

A few years ago when we rented a very large narrowboat Sally would stand at the front of the boat as we approached bridges or locks or curves and help direct the tiller person, 69 feet behind her, around the obstacles.  Sometimes her arm movements were pretty frantic as we headed towards solid objects such as other boats, or into the weedy bank.  We did get the hang of it, eventually.

Sally directing the tiller man, or woman

This boat is a modest 47 feet but has everything we need for comfortable travel.  I am very excited!

Now I am back in my old home town, Durham, for 10 weeks.  That is a long time to impose on Sally and Trevor.  My family are my sheroes and heroes, supporting me on this adventure.  Hosting me in their homes and ferrying me around the country. I am one very lucky woman!

Years ago a friend asked me why, in British TV shows, people always closed the door when they entered or left a room.  It reminded me of something that was glaringly obvious to me when I first arrived in Canada, but after a while got used to, as we do.  The flagrant use of energy in Canada.  The doors are closed to keep the heat in the room.  Only rooms being used are heated in Britain.  So the living room would be heated, but the hallway would not.  Open the door and a draught blew into the heated room.  And why?  Because energy in Britain, in all of Europe, is very much more expensive than we are used to paying in Canada.  I remember being shocked at the oblivious use of electricity, the size of the vehicles, and the glorious heat in all the rooms.  Growing up it was second nature to conserve energy and still is here.  Today, Martin, my sister Jane’s partner pointed out to me the markers inside the electric kettle denoting the levels of water for 1, 2 or 3 cups of coffee or tea.  It continues here, but we have had to be trained in Canada, and the screams of bloody murder about the increase in “hydro” have always seemed a bit self-indulgent, but I guess if something has always been cheap you expect it to continue, even if it is unrealistically cheap.  But enough of that soap box, on to another one.  The practices around selling land.

My nephew Lucien picked me up from the airport and we drove to his new property near Fairy Hill, Compton Dando, North Somerset.  That is what it is called, I kid you not, you can look it up, preferably not on g**gle.  It is a beautiful piece of property, and the view is magnificent, across rolling hills.  For some reason I did not take any pictures, but I am going back in a few days.  He explained to me that a previous owner, not even the one that he bought from I think, put a covenant on it.  The covenant is in place until 2029.  This particular covenant enables the previous owner to benefit financially if the land is developed and the value increased as a result.  I am not sure how this would be enforced, do they visit once a year to inspect the property?  Or do they use g**gle earth to keep an eye on it?  It gets madder.  Lucien’s uncle, Jonathan bought a property around the country corner from Jane.  The property had been owned by the Flucks, a lovely couple that died after long lives, but childless.  A nephew inherited.  He severed 6 square feet of land from the property so that he could put in an objection to the planning committee if the new owner developed the part of the property on the opposite side of the road from the house.  He had never ever lived there, but felt this was necessary.  By the way, he does not have to pay tax on his 6 square feet.  Taxes are not payable on undeveloped land.  I wonder who he will leave it to, a hobbit?

Off to meet my great nephew Ruben tomorrow…..

What better way to say goodbye to a house full of memories and love, as well as some loss and pain, to take the edge off the jolt of the finality of stepping out of it one last time, than to be silly.  So my wonderful “packsters” and I were.

Hugs in the kitchen. Sue behind Katherine

Katherine and I in the living room. We can almost touch both walls of my 12’6″ wide house

Never seen the basement this empty. We could dance a jig

Boy, that basement worked hard for me.  For a long time it housed Plant Life, my aromatherapy and massage therapy products company.  Many an essential oil  and massage lotion were poured, mixed, packed and shipped from here.  There was an invoicing computer and a labelling computer and lots and lots of bottles, boxes, packing peanuts.  You could not see a patch of bare wall.

The transformation of the basement from dingy to bright was entirely due to Wilbert, my real estate agents’ partner.  The neatest, quietest person you could wish for working in your house.  Another person that Zoey charmed, and he charmed her when she visited the basement to inspect progress.  He would get her dancing, and her eyes would be bright with glee.

Upstairs we go. I always loved this staircase, and it was the best place to display art

Katherine, lying where her bed was many moons ago when she lived here

Sue in the closet, but only for a moment

They made me do it, they made me do it, honestly.  Glad it is dark

Do I even need an office now that I am retired?

A lovely young family have bought the house, including a new baby boy born between the purchase and the closing.  They toured through last Saturday with some family members, and I am pretty sure they are excited about moving in.  Ready to make it their own.  I couldn’t be happier that they are the ones who bought it.

How do you say thank you enough to people that have given days of their lives to helping you get ready for this day? Words seem futile to express my gratitude.   My three sisters travelled from England to help me sort, mentally for me the hardest parts of this.  What to save, what to give away, what to throw away. It is so hard to throw away an item that has served you well but now really has no usefulness to anyone else.  Sue ferried many a truck load of stuff to my garage in Owen Sound on her way home from work, and Katherine and Sue were with me for the final two days, working tirelessly.  It was hard to get them to stop and eat.  But thankful I am for all their help.  And the lighthearted fun so that I could walk out of the door