I should note the passing of another phase of our writing careers.
This has been a year of moving boxes. Back at the beginning of the year, we upped-sticks on our townhouse condominium to move into a full-fledged home closer to the girls’ school, and putting fourteen years of our accumulated lives into boxes and taking them out again was only accomplished with the support and hard-work of many friends and relations (thank you!). You’d think, after all that, we’d have learned our lesson and stayed away from moving boxes, right?
But the truth was, the move was only half done. Near the end of spring, Erin and I pulled the plug on her lease on her unique downtown Kitchener office space. Though it was much loved, we were using it less, and while the rent was more than reasonable, paying rent for something we weren’t using is a fool’s errand.
So, at the end of July, while Erin prepared for Mongolia, I roped in my parents to help haul boxes and a treadmill desk down twenty-seven steps and into waiting cars. We paid $200 to hire some movers to take care of the heavy furniture. The office, with its boudoir-red walls and black trim (a relic of when we first rented the office, after it had been taken over by a pole-dancing school — the pole-dancers have since left and highland dancers are now in their place), now sits empty.
I have an office of my own, now, in the new house, and the treadmill desk borrowed from Erin’s office helps ensure that I do my daily dose of walking. Erin’s found a lot of joy writing in her chair in the living room next to the fireplace — at least, when the kids are at school. We still have hopes of renovating the garden shed out back into Erin’s own office, but she’s already used it to get away from the kids when needed.
