Goodbye, Old Home

This post comes to you a little later than usual because yesterday we moved into our new home just north of Cobourg, Ontario. Out in the country and a very different proposition from our old place deep in the city of Toronto. I’m still surrounded by packing boxes and I don’t think the reality has sunk in yet, but it’s an exciting time.

Bill’s photo this week spoke to those emotions, so while this story is fictional, it’s heavily inspired by circumstance.

Photo copyright Bill Reynolds

Our first house was a dream buy. The owner’s unexpected demise made it cheap and we could fix all the old-fashioned décor over time.

Except time never seemed to come.

Now as we stand on the threshold, saying goodbye, I’ll miss those curtains I stared at through a million late-night feeds, that rug where our dear departed Rusty curled up every morning after his walk, the wallpapered pillar with lines showing dates and heights. I’ll even miss the avocado bathroom we swore would be the first thing to go. I guess puke colour is fitting given the things it endured.

FF – Late Night Drinking

Image copyright Fleur Lind

Late Night Drinking

“It’s not there.” His voice startled me. I’d been twenty miles away in another bar, watching Jason walk away. Wondering why.

I looked up. The man was maybe fifty. Salt and pepper good-looking. Like George Clooney but without the smile.

“The answer. It’s not there.”

“Where?” I asked.

“Nothing at the bottom of that glass but glass.” He said, pointing to the drink on the bar in front of me. “Trust me, I’ve finished a few of those.”

In spite of myself, I laughed. “Maybe you just haven’t found the right glass yet.”

“Another one, then? We can look together.”

FF – At the Side of the Road

At the Side of the Road

“Two roads diverged in a yellow wood.”

A groan.

“I came to a fork in the road, so I picked it up!”

“Mom, seriously.”

“No poems, no jokes. How about interesting facts? French for Stop is Arret. It’s the root of our word arrest, like cardiac arrest, but we mostly…”

“No, Mom. No jokes, no facts, no silly word games.”

“So we’re just going to sit here and pretend your brother isn’t yakking on the verge outside the car?”

Silence.

“Wales uses Stop signs but it’s not proper Welsh. Should be Stopiwch or Stopio.”

“I’m gonna go join the barfing.”

Extroduction

This one is totally clear to me in my head, but I don’t know whether it needs more exposition to be clear. I had in mind Mom and son waiting in the car while another son hurls his guts at the side of the road. Mom’s trying to distract herself and her son, but he’s not in the mood. Let me know if that’s what you saw – and don’t be afraid to critique if it’s not.

My youngest has all-but written off our car this week by NOT waiting until he got out and liberally decorating the inside. Luckily, it’s a Jeep Wrangler, so worst case scenario, I’ll take the roof off and drive it through a car wash. A highlight while attempting to clean it by hand was discovering that the floor has a drainage plug. Y’know, in case you flood the car. The designer probably didn’t envisage the flood being caused by me with a bottle of bleach and a hose!

In other news, here’s the Welsh Stop sign debate.

FF – Progress

Rochelle Wisoff-Fields‘ own photo this week.

Progress

The photo on my Mum’s dresser shows Gran and Gramps getting married. She made the dress herself from a Simplicity pattern and fabric she bought at the market. There were enough scraps that Mum was christened in a gown made with them, two years later.

I can’t sew a button. Mum could; I’d have to pay someone. Economic progress through the loss of individual skills. Presumably Great-Gran wove the fabric herself. And her Grandma grew the cotton herself.

If I’m right, where does progress go next? Perhaps my daughters won’t even have to earn their own money to buy clothes!

** All fiction, in case you were wondering **