the Walnut Diary

Under the maple trees on the front lawn of my parents’ house, Elizabeth Ann Gibson, aged 19 years, on this day agreed to a name change. Then we returned to Kingston for another year of schooling. The following spring we moved into the family home in Forfar and promptly landed jobs in the community. Two years later we built a raised bungalow in the abandoned orchard on the corner of the farm, and moved out of the sprawling family dwelling.

Forty-eight years later we are again preparing the brick house for a young family, as our son Charlie, Roslyn and Ada prepare to move in for a couple of days a week until the pandemic settles down. All agree that it’s better for four-year-old Ada to spend her week days with her competing grandparents rather than in an Ottawa kindergarten or the Carleton University day care at this unsettled time.

Roz’s parents moved from Burlington to a large house in Kingston to be closer to the new grand-daughter, so in March they were able to accommodate Roz and Charlie working remotely from offices set up in their house while Ada hung out with her grandparents.

But over the long haul, there’s also an opportunity for the house in the country as well, as long as the Internet service remains up to snuff.

The old house seems to like the attention. Its wiring is new. The roof is into its second summer. There is a massive new septic system. Stripping the chestnut trim and redoing the pine floors in the master bedroom took me most of last summer. Removing the wallpaper this month took five days of steamer rental. Charlie is repairing the plaster.

This week I have made two trips to the Portland transfer station with my little diesel tractor and dump trailer, a nine mile round trip each time. To the bemusement of the attendants and assembled pickup owners, I backed my little trailer up to the concrete curb above a huge dumpster, pulled the lever, and dumped 450 pounds of old mason jars and aluminum pots and pans. I did not want to have to shovel broken glass out of a regular trailer, so I had cruised down Forfar Road, Harlem Road, Hwy 15 and The Old Kingston Road at 8 miles per hour. On a subsequent trip this morning I unloaded all of the pickle jars stored under the stairs and in the basement, another day’s work of cleaning and 300 pounds or so. The only remaining glassware now is of high quality in a China cabinet, but I’ll deal with that. The closets and cabinets are now all empty, and the kitchen has upgraded lighting and refurbished ceiling tile.

It has taken me five years to get this far.

While I was gadding about the countryside this morning, my fair Elizabeth chose today as a mow-everything day. She did exactly that, using a succession of three mowers and her string trimmer. Self-actualization may come in unexpected forms with long-married couples, but we’re getting by.