The Learning Curve Report

The blog is back and, boy, have I been round the bay here in Newfoundland since my last post. I’ve also been home to the good ol’ US of A once.

The learning curve has been very high.   

Where to begin…

How about the first four things that come to my mind?
     

      1. Keep the path clear of snow for the oil delivery. Nothing is scarier than freezing weather, a snowy forecast and an almost empty oil tank. Oil fuels the furnace and hot water heating system in this house. Our tank never hit empty, but it got down to a quarter full. Our winter oil bills are about the same amount in in St. John’s as our air conditioning bills were in Houston in the summer.

So, here’s what happened. I arrived in deep snow. We pretty much ignored the deck and backyard—they were buried under three feet of snow (at least.) Eventually I climbed over the hardened snow, forgetting we had a man-made pond and waterfall in the backyard and walked the dogs on top of them. No, we did not crack through the ice and fall in. I also walked over the dormant snow-covered flowering shrubs.

One day we noticed the oil tank was down to a quarter—and the next day I saw the oil truck come and go without filling up our tank! What?! Turns out a solid foot of ice on each side held our gate firmly closed and kept the oil man from connecting our tank to his truck. I spent the next week chipping—oh that sounds too sweet and easy—how about feverishly chopping away the ice. I tied the back gate to the deck rail, which kept it open. Stroke of brilliance, I say! On a serious note, I have shoveled snow, deep snow, but I have never worked so physically hard in my life as I did chopping that ice. Next winter I will be vigilant, keeping the snow cleared!

I will also mark important areas, like the steps from the deck, the edge of the deck, the pond, the bushes and other living things I trampled over, by marking them with PVC sticking up from the ground before the snow comes. Maybe I’ll add solar lights in the tubes for a pretty lighting on the snow, eh? See how the creativity soars here? And, yes, we get enough light for solar lighting despite the dark gloomy days, at least since May. We’ll see about winter!

2. I learned you MUST give yourself plenty of time between connecting flights in and out of St. John’s. I lived a nightmare both ways when I traveled at the end of April/beginning of May. Between St. John’s spring fog and United’s usual umpteen gate changes and United’s passion for sitting on the runaway going nowhere, I arrived exhausted and returned exhausted. In the future, I might stay on the island in April and May, and convince all friends and relatives that this really is the exotic vacation hot spot (that it is, I’m telling you) in June and July. Icebergs, whales, ocean breezes and really fantastic food!

  

      3. I am a CFA and, chances are, you are too… although yesterday a sweet little 83 year old woman at the Dollar Store where few things are a dollar and most are several or more, floated my boat.  She assumed I am a Newfoundlander, born and bred. “CFA” is what the locals call anyone who’s not from Newfoundland. “Come from away.” I’m proud the little woman thought I am a local, but she was also wearing a sweatshirt and complaining about heat flashes on what am I positive was the hottest day of the year. I will stop there because...

     This brings me to Lesson Learned #4: Snow does melt. Eventually. 

       I had my doubts. I found my summer shorts while I was unpacking—in March. I laughed. Now I can’t find them. So… we survived what everyone here says is the coldest, harshest snowiest winter in the last “eighteen” or “thirty years.” I guess it depends on how old you are or where in St. John’s you were, because the weather is always different round the bay!

Growing up in Chicago probably had a lot to do with my enjoying—okay, truth, putting up with the ridiculous seven foot snow drift in our driveway. Being able to stay home and bundle up only to take the dogs out and then sit and stare out at it from the window with a mug of hot coffee in my hands probably helped too. I did worry about Hubbie getting home in blizzard, and sometimes schools and government agencies were closed but The Office was not. Our address is St. John's, but we are closer to Mount Pearl. Sometimes St. John's forgets to shovel us out. Of course, Mount Pearl and St. John's bicker about shoveling the highway on and off ramps. 

Snow was completely new to two of us--the dogs! Our golden retriever/Australian shepherd/beautiful mutt did not initially approve of the cold white stuff. But by the time there was one tiny 3 foot wide patch left in the backyard—it was MAY, Mother’s Day weekend, in fact—that little patch of snow was Annie and Layla’s business destination. Until it was gone. Our next door neighbor hinted that snow could last til July. It did not. Our next door neighbor is such a character—as is everyone we meet!

Now it's July and, without air conditioning, I’m telling you, it’s hot and muggy in the house. But outside and coming through the windows is a sea "breeze" (it's wind)  that saves us. We also have a basement and, growing up in Chicagoland without air conditioning, I know to keep basement windows shut and upstairs windows open. I also know summer will be gone all too fast. We’ll be remembering how great it was...because it really is great! Come and see for yourself if you don't believe me.

See ya round the bay! 

Romance on Valentine's Day

The first romantic gesture I ever encountered on Valentine’s Day was in first grade. I think his older sister put him up to it, but it was darling. I’ll never forget him coming to my front door—or the gift. I have no idea where he is now, but I hope that he is living happily ever after with the love of his life.

I don’t know about yours, but most of my Valentine’s Day memories include cutting hearts out of pink, red and white construction paper with dull scissors (except in fourth grade when I swiped my mom’s sharp sewing scissors and took them to school—which might now be akin to bringing a lethal weapon.) Making valentine boxes and bags was always an important classroom event—paste (ugh) upgraded to glue by fourth grade, glitter, rhine stones crepe paper, shiny curly ribbon, white doilies… We’d tape our boxes or boxes to the chalk tray beneath the blackboard at the front of the classroom, then march past dropping our tiny cards in their tiny white envelopes—maybe stamped with a sticker—into our classmates’ boxes or bags. Opening our stash would be the very last event of the party at the end of the school day. Staring at them all day was the best motivation for good behavior!

I’m not sure if we did any “real” school work on Valentine’s Day back then. Later, as a teacher, I always worked valentines or heart into my regular lessons.

Valentine’s Day parties at school were whatever our roommothers made them. The sky was the limit. If you got a great roommother, oh, did you have fun. Balloons, games, prizes… CAKE, fancy party beverages. Of course, the big event was opening the cards.

I don’t remember any Valentine’s Days in middle school, and my high school Valentine’s Days were fairly uneventful. Until senior year.

I asked a boy I really liked to the King of Hearts dance—girl-ask-boy. And on the actual Valentine’s Day that boy, My Hero in-the-making, gave me a red velvet box full of Godiva Chocolates. It was magical—both the moment and the chocolates. I still have the box which now holds some of the first letters he wrote me when we went away to two different colleges.

Today we woke up before sunrise in Newfoundland, far from our high school homes, far from our first apartment, far from our first house, and far from all our kids. We’re on a brand new adventure, and so far, it’s excellent, Phil and Nancy's Excellent Adventure. Today will be my first snowstorm on the island.

And just around sunrise, My Hero gave me a brand new red velvet box—full of Newfoundland chocolates. Like the first Godivas he bought me, I’ll eat them slowly, one by one. And then I’ll save the box. Forever.  

Happy Valentine’s Day, Everyone!

Treasures of Newfoundland, Weekend 1

Geography has captured my heart again. It was my favorite subject in elementary school although I think, even in the Dark Ages when I rode to school in a ox-drawn wagon or trekked through the snow in my bare feet, geography was part of “social studies.”

Anyhoo, give me a map and I am a happy soul. It doesn’t even matter what’s on the map. (Treasure would be fun.) I like coloring and labeling maps too. 

Today our furniture was supposed to be delivered, but the moving truck has broken down at a truck stop one mile from our house. It could be worse, right? It could be somewhere on the mainland. So today I will write another chapter of the WIP (work in progress) and explore my new homeland on the Internet, same way I have for the past ten months, zooming in and out on Google Maps. Last week I discovered I now live on the Avalon Peninsula. (Doesn't that sound romantic?) How did I not already know this? Avalon. What a lovely sounding place. And it is lovely! The Learning Curve is extremely high right now, and my brain is overflowing with good stuff--miles vs. kilometers, fahrenheit vs. celsius, how to make GOOD coffee in the tiniest coffee maker ever and how many pairs of socks to put on in the morning Luckily there is nothing I love more than learning. But I do love writing and taking photographs. Thus, this blog!

Saturday My Hero took me on a drive through some beautiful, breathe-taking countryside to see Cape Spear, half an hour from our house. While he wouldn’t stop long enough to let me out of the car in picturesque Petty Harbour or along the side of the road to snap pictures, he promised we’ll go that route again many times. I can’t wait to see the seasons change.

Petty Harbour from the car window

on the road from Petty Harbour to Cape Spear

Cape Spear is the mostly easterly point of North America. It's the first place the sunrises on the North American continent. The Portuguese called it “Cabo da Esperanca” (Cape of Hope) and the French called it “Cap d’Espoir.” English (with a lovely Irish lilt) is the language here, and eventually the place became “Cape Spear.” When you see the photo of Cape Spear from Signal Hill (coming up) notice how it does indeed look spear-shaped. 

On Cape Spear, which guards the entrance to St. John's harbour, there are two light houses. The first was built in 1836 and lit with oil until 1930. It’s the oldest standing lighthouse in Canada. The newer lighthouse was built in 1955.

Cape Spear's lighthouses

My Hero did eventually stop the car and let me out to take pictures when we arrived at Cape Spear. I didn't last long. The trusty iPhone said the temp was -29—and that’s in Celcius. I took my gloves off long enough to snap a few pics, and many are blurry due to my shivering—or the wind. 

There’s history to be learned at Cape Spear and I'll be back! I look forward to exploring the place when the snow is gone and it’s safe to wander. And maybe warmer? Bunkers and gun barrels from WW2, oh my! 

looking at Cape Spear from Signal Hill

Sunday morning, we drove to Signal Hill. I was there in November when we were on our house hunting trip and the fog was so thick I could barely see my hands at the end of my arms. And I thought it was cold back in November! 

Sunday morning, the weather was cold but beautiful. Sunny and clear, no fog. The sun was almost too bright for pictures, as you can see, and we lasted only ten minutes outside the car before climbing back in—again, my problem is frozen fingers. I must investigate better gloves. Surely there is something just for photographers!

Signal Hill was originally called “The Lookout.” It’s an amazing point from which signals were given with flags from the 1600’s until 1960. Cabot Tower was built on Signal Hill to commemorate Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee in 1897 and the 400^th anniversary of John Cabot arriving there in 1497. Again, you can find out more about the history in a future post!

Cabot Tower

looking down at St. John's from Signal Hill

The Tale of Two Dogs (and How They Got to Newfoundland)

My Hero and I were warned. Getting our dogs to Newfoundland wouldn’t be easy.

"How could you even think of leaving us behind?"

“In February? Are you crazy?”

Maybe we are. Or were. 

“We’ll fly to St. John's, no problem,” we told everybody and, in case you have just tuned in, St. John's is on the Canadian island of Newfoundland. In the Atlantic. “We. Can. Do. It,” we said.

And we did. Will we do it again? Keep reading.

I quickly discovered Air Canada won’t fly dogs from Houston. Houston’s too hot. Never mind that we were flying February 1^st and Houston has experienced of the coldest winters in years.

My Hero informed me we wouldn’t fly Air Canada. We always fly United—gathering those air miles!

But then, we found out United doesn’t fly dogs to Newfoundland. Newfoundland is too cold.

So maybe we should drive.

After a long look at the map, we discovered there’s a nine hour drive around snowy Newfoundland after the overnight ferry ride from the mainland. We heard rumors that Newfoundland’s northern roads aren’t as paved as we think roads should be paved. And maybe they won’t be salted or plowed…

Maybe we will fly after all.

Turns out neither United nor Air Canada will fly dogs in cargo on anything but an “air bus.” Not many air busses fly into St. John’s. By the way, if you think ‘air bus’ means the plane is huge, you would be wrong.

My Hero spent an entire Saturday morning in December lining up our flights for the first weekend in February. It would take three flights to get us to St. John’s. The first, from Houston to Chicago via United. Next, a United flight from Chicago to Toronto. We’d have to spend the night in Toronto. Our third flight would be to St. John’s the following evening via Air Canada, ultimately landing around 1:30 in the morning. Essentially it would be a three day trip. If all went well.

The day before we left Houston, my heart stopped. United canceled our flight to Chicago. Before I could recover, another email informed me United had put us on another flight—not an air bus—and a flight leaving Houston at the same time our flight from Chicago was supposed to take off for Toronto.

Then, miraculously—and I DO believe in miracles—a third email arrived. The original Houston-to-Chicago flight had been reinstated. Just like that. Wow.

So here’s how flying Layla and Annie worked…

Layla, in Annie's crate.

United has a program called Pet Safe. I’m semi-impressed with it. The instructions on line explained what kennels/crates we needed, size-wise. I bought them at Pet Smart. The Pet Safe people over the phone and in person seemed nice enough. We dropped in to check it out. I’m glad we did—it didn’t seem so foreign when we dropped off the dogs.

The Pet Safe program is picky. The only thing you’re allowed in the crate with your dog, besides newspaper or some kind of lining on the floor for accidents, is a blanket—all for your dog’s safety, of course. United promises to keep the temperature in the live animal cargo hold humane.

Air Canada has no such program. You can put anything you want in the crate with your pet. They promise only to keep the temperature in the cargo hold above freezing.

Annie in her igloo

For the Air Canada leg of the journey, I packed an entire suitcase for the dogs. Layla is 40 pounds and has a double thick coat, and she’s loved Houston’s cold January. She’d be alright wearing a thick fabric coat and nestling up with a couple of fleece blankets. Annie, who is 12 pounds, has a nice little soft-sided igloo where she hides during Houston thunderstorms—it’s warm. I packed it in one of those “Space Bags” and vacuumed the air out of it so it would fit in a suitcase. For that last cold leg of the journey, I’d dress Annie in a knitted sweater and a wooly-lined coat I I’d stuff a blanket in her crate and wrap another around her igloo which I’d also jam in her crate. She’d be snug.

pony blankets

Right before we left Houston, a random girl in a random shoe store (who happens to love dogs) told My Hero we should place a horse blanket in the bottom of each crate for insulation. Wow. What a great suggestion! Last minute, I found pony blankets at Charlotte’s Saddlery in Tomball, Texas—and they are fantastic. (Both the pony blankets and the people at Charlotte’s.) The crates would definitely be snug. The dog paraphernalia suitcase weighed 49.5 pounds.   

On Saturday February 1 at 10am in Houston, we said goodbye to Annie and Layla in their minimally suited crates at United’s Cargo/Pet Safe desk and headed to our terminal for human/luggage check-in. We would not see Annie and Layla again until late that night in Toronto. I tried not to think about it.

The flight from Houston to Chicago was brilliant. We’d been upgraded to business, and business class on that particular flight was crème de la crème. I watched the movie of my choosing, wrote a bit, ate a decent meal, drank a gin and tonic. I envisioned Annie and Layla enjoying a doggie spa in cargo below.

Our Chicago-to-Toronto flight was delayed. This time business class upgrade merely meant more space—that was it. Nothing special.

Picking up the dogs in Toronto was a nightmare.

I lost track of time. My American iPhone now turned off, I now had no idea what time it was.   

Obtaining our luggage in Toronto took longer than the flight to Toronto from Chicago. I kid you not. I had no idea that Chicago was so close to Toronto (less than an hour,) but waiting an hour for luggage had everybody wondering… had luggage been put on the flight? My Hero and I were tired and anxious. We still had to go through customs, rent a car and drive to the cargo warehouse to pick up Annie and Layla.

Sounds way easier than it was.

When we finally had a car and our suitcases were in it, we had vague instructions on how to drive to the cargo warehouse and managed to find it. BUT before being reunited with Annie and Layla—and it was no surprise, we knew it would be like this—we were given paperwork for Annie and Layla which needed to be driven to Customs (another building) and approved. Once the paperwork was stamped, we would bring the paperwork back to the cargo warehouse and be reunited with the dogs.

Again, it sounds way easier than it was.

We were driving on snow in a strange minivan in strange city in the middle of the night. Toronto should probably blow the snow off some of its street signs. To get to the Customs office building, we drove the entire perimeter of the airport. Yes, we did. 

My Hero had a lovely chat with the officials in the Customs office. Everyone wants to know something about finding oil. After Customs, we drove the perimeter of the airport again, returning to the cargo warehouse for Annie and Layla, only to discover nobody was there.

The building was open, the door to the office unlocked, the door to the warehouse section locked. After ringing the bell a zillion times, it was all I could do to keep myself from jumping over the counter and helping myself. We pounded on doors. We pounded on windows overlooking forklifts in motion. Nobody seemed to hear us.  

Then finally a little man, who’d been running one of the forklifts behind the Nancy-proof glass, showed up at the desk. He glanced at the paperwork and led us to the dogs. If I hadn’t had fingernail clippers in my plastic bag of 3 ounce carry-on liquids, we wouldn’t have been able to cut the zip ties used to secure the crate doors. No, there were no scissors in the warehouse and crowbars were too big.

Annie and Layla were beyond happy to see us. Shocked by their first encounter with snow and ice in the cargo warehouse parking lot, piddle time was odd at best. 

We arrived at the hotel around four in the morning. Something like that. Annie did her business in the snow. Layla was like, “Are you kidding? I’ll hold it til I see grass.” (She would still be holding if she hadn’t gotten over it the next day. We have not seen grass since February 1, in Houston.)

I’ll plug the hotel, Town Place Suites near the airport in Toronto. We were willing to pay for a second night just to stay in the hotel beyond our noon check-out. They let us stay (for no more than our initial pet fee) until 6 pm. We slept, we ate, I wrote. The dogs were never happier. Layla finally surrendered to the snow and did her business. (By the way, I carry poo bags in my pocket everywhere we go.)

At the Toronto airport Sunday night, we checked the dogs in like luggage—after a two hour delay, of course. Even though it was not called Pet Safe, it somehow felt safer. Of course, the dogs now had all the gear added to their crates. We zip tied them in, said our good-byes and headed to security and then to the Maple Leaf Club where I should have had a second glass of red wine. 

Would we reach St. John’s Hertz Rental Car desk before it closed? Would we have to take two taxis from the airport to the house? Phil called the desk in St. John’s and offered a small fortune for the girl who answered to stay til we got there. And she did.

The Air Canada flight to St. John’s was crowded. We were not in business class but somehow wound up with the only empty seat on the plane between us. I slept.

Upon arriving at St. John’s small airport, Phil acquired car keys and I hurried over to baggage claim where I immediately spotted familiar crates. I ran right past the sign stating all dogs must remain in their crates until exiting the terminal. Didn’t even see it.

I broke through the zip ties with my trusty finger nail clippers, let Annie and Layla out, hugged them like Timmy hugged Lassie after Lassie came home, and I was promptly informed I was breaking the law.

Apologizing, I reluctantly put Annie and Layla back in their crate—until we exited. 

This is the way to travel!

Twenty minutes later, Annie and Layla were happily riding     in the backseat of another rental car, this time headed for Our New Home. I am pretty sure the sun was coming up as we climbed into bed.

Here’s my prediction: When Newfoundland Days come to an end, we will drive back to Texas.

Another Snowy Day in St. John's

We interrupt The Tale of the Journey to bring you an up-to-date post about SNOW.

We’ve had blue skies until this morning. Beautiful blue skies and amazing sunsets. A bit of falling snow, the Christmas card sparkly-flake kind.

The sun rises and sets beyond my kitchen window, and I’ve been basking in sunlight like a big ol’ turtle the last couple of days, catching up on writing time after the move froma long break due to the big move. I take breaks playing with the dogs. I can’t help but oooh and awww over glitter-like sparkles covering our deck, especially after sundown.

Today, however, we woke up to cold, gray skies and deeper than expected snow. Most businesses and all schools cancelled and, depending on the weather, may delay openings. According to the news, 24cm of snow have fallen. You do the math. It’s not 24 inches.

Houston would come to a halt. Power would be out. Here, this is nothing too special, but there is still TV news hype involved.  

While the dogs and I were still asleep in bed, Phil snow-blowed the driveway. By the time the dogs

 and I got outside, falling snow had covered it up.

I know most of my Texas friends have no urge whatsoever to experience Real Winter and most of my northern friends are sick of it. But I think Real Winter is very romantic and lots of fun. It’s what makes summer spectacular. I know Real Winter is hard work, but it also provides the Free Unavoidable Aerobics Program.

Here’s how FUAP works.

FUAP Warm Up/approximately 10 minutes: First me—scarf, coat, hat.Then dogs. Fasten the leash through Annie’s two layers—sweater and coat. Carefully harness Layla who is afraid of strangers, cars, strange noises and who can get out of anything. (She’s a furry Houdini.) Finally, put on boots, jam pant legs into boots, pull on my gloves and grab the leashes and exit the house. 

(Before leaving the house, there must be a towel by the door for wet paws or there is additional aerobics involved.)

FUAP Intense/between 4-10 minutes: Walk the dogs til they do their business. Now that they know the white-stuff is not going away, they put up with it. Layla has already taken a leap head-first into a snowbank just for the fun of it. Annie has already put her mini-schnauzer sniffing skills to work. There is definitely another dog (or critter) who walks past our house—she will find him. However, add freezing temp or super sloppy wet stuff under their paws and Annie and Layla get their business done in record time, like Olympic champs. I’m not sure which will get the gold or silver medal in the Return to the House event.

Returning from FUAP Intense can be a big wet mess. What is still snow on paws and boots will melt and make a puddle in the front hall which will require aerobic mopping if there is no towel waiting. Our massive collection of towels and the boot trays I bought at Lowe’s in Houston are in our shipment which is hopefully getting closer to St. John’s at this very minute. We need those boot trays pronto.

FUAP Cool Down/5 minutes (still burning calories, of course): Remove dog coats and sweaters and leashes, my gloves, hat, scarf, coat and boots. I am done unless I forgot to leave a towel by the door and there is mopping to be done.

Repeat this series at least two more times each day, if not three. 

No, Winter in St. John’s isn’t easy. I simply expect to get less done than I would in Houston where I used to jump into my clothes, step into flip flops and run out the door (even in the winter most of the time.)

This morning I fell down the front steps in the snow and landed on my butt when I took the dogs out. There are two steps, I believe. They are buried. Side note to Dear Friend who told me to count my steps when I could see them, I failed to do this. At least it wasn’t the many steps off the back deck! As soon as I can see them, I will count  my steps out the front door.

The good news, Annie and Layla did their business in record time this morning—vying for the gold, I’m sure. I’m none the worse for wear and most likely already burned off the calories of the bagel and cream cheese I’ve just eaten for breakfast.

I expect good things, and good things keep coming. Little did we know, when we rented this amazing house, a neighbour two doors down owns a snow plow. A REAL snow plow, perfect for REAL winter. And our driveway. Seriously, we are so blessed!

Yes, I will embrace Canadian spelling. When in Canada…

I’ll get back on track  about our complicated and somewhat harrowing journey from Houston to St. John’s another day. I pray when we return to Texas for good, it will be colorful autumn-time and we can drive the scenic route. With the dogs. 

Do you have any winter advice you’d like to share? I’d be grateful!

It Took Six Days

for 2 crews of professional moving men to pack up and empty our house. We’d lived there 22 years. Four kids, three dogs, lots 

of wonderful memories...

 

Movies often begin with a moving truck leaving or arriving, a universal symbol for change... stress. The tearful kids saying good-bye to their friends… exhausted parents who've taken a new job in another town or state, possibly having lost their previous job. Or the house. Maybe they’ve split. Maybe the family has said goodbye to a pet—oh no! Will Precious Pet will get lost along the way? 

Moving rarely makes us think of happy times.

In our case, I was happy. Newfoundland! A Canadian island in the Atlantic! Newfoundland! With real winter lost to me years ago when we moved to Texas from Illinois, pre-dogs, pre-kids. Newfoundland! Just me, My Hero and our dogs. An adventure! Does Newfoundland have a song or do they just sing O Canada? Note to self: learn all the words.

Believe me, the move didn’t happen quickly. It was more like unpeeling an onion, layer by layer. Stinky at times. Lots of sniffling. I had plenty of time to learn the rest of the words to Canada's national anthem but never did. There were days and weeks and months of wondering when the move, if the move would happen. Unexciting stuff and some really exciting but not-about-the-move stuff too. 

Fast forward through the first 3.5 items on our 12 Step Home Improvement Plan: Reside the garage, paint the exterior of the house, tile the kitchen, recarpet the rest of the house. We never got to carpeting the second floor, thus, the .5. 

Our second grandson was born five weeks early in Austin, TX. (He is wonderful and healthy.) Our youngest daughter married Her Hero in Southlake, TX.  I volunteered to create centerpieces for the reception. Loved it. Had a blast. We took a house hunting trip to St. John’s in November (potential future blog post,) enjoyed a last Thanksgiving in the house with all our kids and a quiet last Christmas and battened down the hatches.  

Phil (My Hero) flew to St. John’s right after New Year’s, experienced Newfoundland’s island-wide power outage in a hotel and started his new job. I was alone with the dogs, but time flew. The Houston area’s unusually cold winter weather was surely prep for St. John’s. I dined with friends, met writing pals for coffee, and practiced wearing a winter coat. I prepared for The Invasion of the Moving Men and gave up trying to write my current novel. I barely kept up with my editing. I brainstormed in my head, not on paper or computer. I woke up before sunrise, went to bed early at night. I sorted things I wanted to keep together in plastic storage boxes. You can’t expect movers to know what stuff should be packed with what other stuff. Better safe than sorry. Seriously, it was like sorting my life. I took a lot of pictures, threw a lot of stuff away. I divided the kitchen in half, posting green (“move”) or hot pink (“store”) sticky notes on the cabinet doors behind which I’d rearranged the contents. I forgot just how much I love sticky notes. In retrospect, I think we’ll forget all about most of the things we’ve put in storage and wish we’d just said adios to more of it forever. 

Packing for storage took three days. The packers were strong good-hearted gentlemen who listened to my instructions (my fault, what they didn’t pack in those huge wooden crates.) They braved super-cold (Houston) weather and icy roads. Every school district in the Houston area was closed one day but I insisted the guys could get to my house safely by noon. I was right. I tipped them generously for their trouble.

On the last day, when the truck full of huge wooden crates containing our stuff drove away, I prayed the next crew, the moving packers, would be just as good. Someday I might blog about the Most Awful Move EVER. Midland. June, 1988.Talk about a nightmare.

Day Four, a Sunday, which I found unusual, the big orange Allied truck drove up. To say The Driver is a “character” is an understatement. What job has this man not had? He claims driving for Allied has saved his marriage. I would love to meet his wife, no doubt a character too. A resident of Toronto, he drives to St. John’s all the time and wasn’t the least bit concerned about the weather or roads. (Since Newfoundland is an island, there is a very long, overnight ferry ride involved.) 

The crew of packers our driver hired was terrific.  To say that they were a bunch of “characters” is also an understatement. Packing up is not supposed to be fun, but not only did they do a great job, I was highly entertained. Instead of tipping them daily, I bought them lunch and delivered it. At the end of their third/last day—our sixth day!—we gave each guy a big tip. And I "was given" an unlikely mentor for the main character in my Novel in Progress.

Then they hopped in their cars, honked their horns and followed the truck down the street.

The house was very, very empty.

It was so final.

Stay tuned for The Journey Begins or What Could Be a Nightmare...

See you soon!

Nancy

How This Blog Came to Be

Our move was not ordinary. I will not diss any move. None is ordinary; each is unnerving--I’ve moved enough to know. But this one is particularly blog worthy: Moving from Houston, Texas to St. John’s Newfoundland, Canada in the dead of winter between snow storms, with two dogs, one which once had her own blog.

Despite shaking heads and warnings from friends in Texas and Canada not to move Annie and Layla until Spring, we decided that our furry girls’ rescue-dog spirit would guide them through the ordeal. We are a pack after all. Besides, from what I’ve heard, Spring is pretty much the twin sister of Winter in NL. I will let you know.

Anyhoo, the process began long ago. The first flutters of My Hero’s possible transfer to the St. John’s office came in April (2013.) The Boston Marathon tragedy happened. My mom’s health took a dive. I was packing for our trip to see Utah—Bryce and Zion Canyons—via Phoenix, a visit with our amazing AZ relatives, the drive past Hoover Dam, and a night in Las Vegas. Our first childless vacation in 30 years. Our boy, youngest of four, was away at college.

The trip to AZ/Utah required packing winter and summer wear in one suitcase, and quickly I remembered that winter wear takes up a whole lotta room in a closet (or suitcase.) Move to Newfoundland, and I’d deal with this on a regular basis. Oh, well. No worries (yet.) Moving to St. John’s, NL? Merely a whisper on a breeze.

While I can only speak for myself, it appears most Americans know nothing about Newfoundland. I, for one, knew nothing. Of course I had to do the research. I’m a writer. After searching the Internet, I’ve decided more people need to write about Newfoundland.  Pinterest provided brilliant photographs.

A few years ago (several fews,) my sixth grade social studies teacher Miss Sims asked us to write a report about a European country. More proof that I have selective hearing, I picked Nova Scotia. Nova Scotia is neither in Europe nor a country. It is a Canadian province. So I wound up writing about France, I think. Nevertheless, my pre-assignment research led me to fall in love with Nova Scotia. I’ve always told My Hero I’d move to Nova Scotia in a heartbeat (if The Company wanted to send us there.)

Newfoundland is closer to Nova Scotia than I’ve ever been. A friend who knows told me that Newfoundland is better than Nova Scotia. I trust her.

Move to Newfoundland? Let’s go!

Stay tuned. Next… Our house packed professionally—it only took six days.