Wild geese and the moon

A black squirrel lowers on a tree branch that intersects the frame of the window. The western light makes cranberries of the buds popping on the red maples. It paints a garden of Belgium lace on the curtains of the guest room of Dad’s place in Ottawa. I have just come in from the County on my regular run to oversee the slow transition from his home.

Moving furniture, bagging clothing, hiking non-essentials out to the curb; heavy boxes dropped off at the Sally Ann. With stuff comes a stream of processes, some accompanied by overused words. Like downsizing. This is more about shedding earthly possessions. While some might call prepping a house for the sales market “staging,” in this case I am blessed that Dad is able to participate in the process. He is accepting and clear-minded throughout. While being consulted, the job is yet emotionally charged.

Dad shows up smartly for his shift. Clean shaven, shirt and tie first thing before tea and a proper breakfast. For him, transitioning from a home of 50 years—half of his lifetime—is certainly not theatre. It is the reality of a last summer living on Saunderson Drive.

When the house is sold, he will move to what we call the island. The Gary Armstrong Home is a modern, five-storey facility located on Porter Island in the Rideau River. From there is a view of the nearby Parliament Buildings. The setup is a metaphor for all that islands represent: the surroundings brought peace for my mother over the six years that place was her home. Dad stayed with her daily, driving to and fro. After she left us, we organized a butterfly garden with a sitting bench to be incorporated on the property. Dad then signed up as a volunteer and continued visiting the many on the island he had befriended. It was for continuity that he got his driver’s licence successfully renewed a year ago. Now I jokingly tell him he can be fulltime minder of ducks, geese and swans, while also tending native plants.

Rearranging his home to lighten the accumulation of stuff while respectfully keeping a continuity in the routine and placement of things —habits ingrained in many of us—are moment by moment choices: yes, the filing cabinet can go to the curb; the chairs can go as well; the bowls and plates for donation; keep the phone table; save tablecloths for family; spare change from under the sofa pillow is for the finder’s pocket; yes, the bench is a ‘hang onto’ until a sale of the house, which means, for the time being, it’s headed to the basement.

Add to the flow the visitors: Father Paul, the parish priest comes for a short sit-down with dad; Stan, the neighbour two doors over arrives with banana bread; Jeanne with a bake-dish of egg custard. There’s the paper delivery boy, the mailman and Harry, dad’s neighbour from number 65 Hamlet.

Harry—not to be confused with ol’ Harry, the resident wild hare—used to run the local garage back when they were called service stations. Remember them? Gas fill-up, windowwash service and friendly conversation with the attendant, who offered no up-sell, bonus points, lottery tickets, takeout window or car wash coupons. Hell, the only thing Harry had for sale was fuel, service repair and check-your-tirepressure with a smile. But nowadays, Harry lives alone and misses his customers just around midday—post-Meals on Wheels time. Harry likes to come over for tea and a briefing of daily events.

Makes it interesting, ‘cause Harry’s hearing is critically challenged; worse than mine, even. So I turn the conversation over to Dad while I make another trip to the curb. Honestly, it’s more the music of Guy Lombardo and the pan flute of Zamfir in the mix of things that drives me out. There are days if the volume is below 56 on the scan thingy that I can survive the choice of music. Turning my hearing devices off helps. Chacun à son goût, non?

Man, do folks love the curb pile. They get a little shy and apologetic when I show up with another boxful of stuff while they are picking through the bones of the previous load. The five-foot-something lady with red hair and dark glasses is very happy with her new chairs, don’t you know. And yes, I can help get them into the trunk, no problem. The old barbeque set the record at 7.5 minutes to vanish from the time I rolled it out on its one remaining wheel.

I have to admit, from time to time, to being unable to resist the potential of a profound discovery in a curb pile, and have jumped in with the crowd from the car ahead. I attribute the syndrome to the prehistoric gatherer/hunter/need-to-have gene. Trust me, this is a good thing when time to purge your house, when needto- be-gone time comes ‘round. It’s easier than recounting stories of how-you-came-to-own-it at an imagined, but thankfully long-abandoned notion of a proposed yard sale.

As the clock approaches happy hour, where a cold beverage or two can be extricated from a fridge decorated with takeout containers of leftovers, the sound of a ukulele drifts from the ‘cottage room’. Dad has picked up the uke, a recent thrift store acquisition of mine, and is enjoying its silky tone. He may be warming up to sit in at the Drake on the lake some Tuesday night coming soon. That is, when the commotion around here settles down.

And so, feet up on the rail of the back veranda, late evening toddy in hand, muscles aching from a day of schlep, I contemplate the notion of stuff; a world today where built-in redundancy is part of manufacturing ethic, where every corner of the globe is choc-a-bloc with sameness.

It’s then, through the rising moon comes the call of a party of wild geese, latecomers coming home. The image is not easily forgotten. The silhouette of the Canada’s in the moonlight, barely over the rooftops of a suburban-scape. The meaning of nature’s timeless transition holds real.