Moving on... An open letter to the new owners of our former home

I sat at this island on my wedding day as one of my best friends did my make up. 

Then I walked up those stairs to my bedroom, where my Mom helped me into the wedding dress that she wore - and that my grandmother sewed - 35 years earlier when she married my Dad. 

Then we walked out that front door as our neighbour stood by giddily to tell me that I was a beautiful bride, and to wish me luck on my wedding day. 

This house - and this neighborhood - have been at the centre of my life for the past 12 years. And if walls could talk, they would tell you stories. 

They would tell you that this very house saved our relationship. Before finding it, my husband and I were living in a tiny 1-bedroom apartment - MY apartment that he moved into. We were driving each other crazy. I'm not sure we would have lasted very much longer without divine intervention in the form of real estate. 

They would tell you that it is a bad idea to build a deck together. That day, we fought and fought and fought and fought and then fought some more. I was so mad that I didn't talk to my husband for the entire length of the deck building process. But 12 years later, that deck is still standing. And so are we. (It is also a great place to catch a few rays with a friend).

The walls would tell you that there ain't no party like a kitchen party. Countless gatherings have been had in this kitchen, at this island. 11 New Years Day Levees, Friday night tapas parties, casual potlucks, formal family dinners, birthday parties, and even the occasional dance party. Always we congregate in the kitchen. It's a good thing we tore down the hideous wall that was there before. 

These walls would tell you about how we grew our family. How we adopted one outrageously neurotic dog named Fergus, who barks at and herds all the neighborhood kids. And one fiercely independent and bossy cat, Sadie, who spends her days plotting how to catch every squirrel that dares to run through her yard. Within these walls, these two rescues became the very best of friends, and found their "forever homes".

These walls would tell you how much we love this neighborhood. How it has everything we need. Coffee shops, restaurants (you must, must, must try DiVino Wine Studio, and tell them we sent you), access to the Ottawa River, the canal and the Arboretum for running and snowshoeing, a yoga studio to recuperate from running. And it's only the shortest of walks to the neighboring 'hood of Hintonburg, where I get my nails done (look for Forbes Beauty Company on Fairmont) and where I get the best almond milk latte in town (Ministry of Coffee on Wellington). In the other direction, Parliament Hill is only a 25 minute walk. But on Canada Day, you don't even need to walk that far to have a perfect view of the fireworks. Just walk up to Lebreton Flats. It's one of the best views in town. 

Most of all, these walls would tell you about love. Because they were filled to brimming with love. This is where Hubby and I truly started our life adventure together. Every trip we've ever taken has been planned from a spot on the couch in front of that fireplace. Every life decision - from whether or not to take a new job to when to get a dog to when to get married - has been debated in this space. We have laughed here. We have cried here. We have fought and made up here. We made a life for ourselves here. It is where we truly became life partners. 

These walls provided the perfect setting for a pair of eager young professionals starting out in life. Leaving them behind is not easy. We love this house. It is a part of us forever. 

And now, we hope, that it will forever be a part of you. That you will love this house as much as we did. That you will put your stamp on it and make it your very own. That you will grow together here as partners. And that these walls will continue to have good stories to tell. 

Congratulations, and we wish you all the best. 

Over half of my life...

I was 3 months shy of my 18th birthday when I left the sleepy prairie town of Killarney, Manitoba to come to the University of Ottawa. I stuffed everything that I owned - which at the time consisted of clothing, my c.d. collection (made up mostly of REM, the Tragically Hip and Pearl Jam), and 17 volumes of my adolescent diary - into the back seat of an already-crammed 1980-something Ford Mustang. Already crammed because my friend Harley, the owner of said mustang, was coming with me to Ottawa to attend Carleton University (where the K stands for Kwality, as we UofO'ers like to say).

The night before we left, a tornado ripped through Harley's family's farm, knocking down trees and whipping bails of hay around like ping-pong balls. But that little mustang survived unscathed, and we pulled out of town on the eve of September long weekend, 1994 with not a c.d. or diary out of place. Perhaps this was an early sign that Ottawa was my destiny. Even though I didn't know it then.

Frankly, I didn't know much then. I was, after all, only 17 years old. I was a small-town girl. I had a high-school sweetheart. The school from which I had just graduated had 700 students from kindergarten to grade 12. The town's population hovered around 2,000 people - 1,996 of whom were white-Anglo Saxon protestant (the Chinese restaurant was owned by a Vietnamese family). There was nothing by way of cultural diversity. There was nothing remotely metropolitan. There was nothing to prepare me for a move halfway across the country to a campus that I would share with 40,000 or so other students from every corner of the world.

I was scared shitless.

Those first few weeks were difficult. I missed my boyfriend. I missed my high school friends. I missed my parents. I missed my dog. I even missed my pain-in-the-ass siblings. I missed looking up at night and seeing a million stars. I missed wide-open spaces and big prairie skies. I missed the sound of silence. I missed dry heat and dryer cold. I felt like a complete stranger everywhere that I went. I kept getting lost on campus because I couldn't (and still can't) read maps. I was no longer one of the smartest kids in any of my classes. Everything was just so different. I was just so different. And I felt alone.

But that loneliness didn't last. Ever the extrovert, it didn't take long for me to start reaching out to the people around me. In the process, I met some wonderful people who introduced me to new cultures, taught me how to play euchre, got me into a lot of trouble, and nursed me through heartaches. Block by block, I explored the city of Ottawa and discovered its many treasures: the locks of the Rideau Canal, Parliament Hill, green spaces like Strathcona Park, the nightlife of the Byward Market, unique neighbourhoods, the hiking trails in nearby Gatineau Park. I voted in my first election. I became an adult. I got my first real job as soon as I graduated, and rented my first apartment all to myself, becoming an independent, contributing member of society. Eventually, I joined the public service. Not long after that, I met Hubby. We bought our first house together in Little Italy. I went back to school at St. Paul University for a Masters degree. Hubby and I got married. We adopted our pets. I chose the REDBLACKS over the Blue Bombers.

I don't remember the exact moment that I decided to make my life here in Ottawa. (Although I suspect that meeting Hubby tipped the scales heavily in that favour). But at some point I just knew that this is where I was meant to stay. I still miss the dry cold and the stars and the wheat fields and the skyline of the Prairies. I still miss my family fiercely. But I can't imagine a life that would take me away from this city. The place where I truly discovered myself.

Twenty-one years ago, on the eve of September long weekend, a girl climbed into the passenger seat of a crammed 1980-something Mustang to drive halfway across the country. Little did she know that this Mustang was taking her home.

Helpless in Geneva

There I was, sitting on a patio at a Geneva brewery, typing away at a funny blog post about my Swiss adventures, when a CBC alert flashed across my iPhone screen. "Breaking: OC Transpo bus and VIA Rail passenger train collide."

WTF?!?

I went directly to my CBC app to find out what had happened. But the story was so very breaking, that there was no additional info. Just a red banner streaming the same line over and over across the top of the screen. 

(I have since learned that 5 people died on scene, 1 more in hospital, and 30 people are injured, 11 quite seriously. Holy. Shit.)

I knew right away that Hubby had to be safe. He doesn't take the bus to work, and even if he did, he would not take a bus anywhere near the VIA line. Yet I was in shock. So much so that I didn't even think to go to Twitter or Facebook to see if there were any from-the-ground updates, as there always are in this day and age of social media. Instead, I sat there helplessly staring at the breaking news banner, trying to figure out what to do next. As though there is anything that I actually could do...

The only thing I kept thinking - and am thinking still - was an utterly selfish thought. "God, please tell me that I don't know anyone on that bus." 

Followed by, "How could I not know someone on that damn bus! This is Ottawa!"

Followed by, "I want to be home right now!"

Like I could do a damn thing if I were home right now...

Obviously, I could not do anything particularly useful if I were in Ottawa instead of here. I'm not a first responder. I don't work for VIA or OC Transpo. I'm not an elected official who needs to put on a brave face and give news to the community. 

But here's what I could do if I were home. I could throw my arms around my husband and squeeze him tight, knowing that he was safe and sound. I could tune in to press conferences to know what is going on. I could be there for my staff, many of whom commute to work by bus and who are probably shaken to the very core by what has occurred. 

But most importantly, I could be there with my fellow community members. To grieve with them. To pray with them. To support them. To be strong with them. To draw strength from them.

To love them. 

Instead, I am an ocean away. Trying to get the full picture by following Twitter. Feeling utterly helpless and entirely alone. And missing my family and my community like crazy. 

In the nineteen years that I have been in Ottawa, I have never experienced a tragedy like this one. It is wrenching my gut. And breaking my heart. And making me realize how very much I love my community. What a deep and abiding part of me it has become.

And so, I did the only thing that I could do. I summoned the waiter and paid my bill. Then I walked across the street to the Notre Dame Basilica, which I had planned to visit anyway. I walked down the aisle to the front. I genuflected in front of the alter, bowed to Jesus, and knelt down in the pew. And then I prayed. 

"Angel of God,

My guardian dear.

To whom God's love

Entrust me near.

Ever this day,

Be at my side,

To light and guard,

To rule and guide.

- Amen"

I will be home as soon as I can, Ottawa. In the meantime, my guardian angel agreed that she will give you strength.