No Place Like Home for the Holidays

December 22, 2018 

Nothing says, "You're back in Canada, kid!" like Saturday night at home watching hockey on the CBC. Winnipeg Jets vs Vancouver Canucks tonight — our two teams. Winnipeg for the hometown loyalty; Vancouver for the local allegiance. If there were curling to watch between periods, it would pretty much be a perfect evening.

We truly are "home for the holidays" — our Home and Native Land, that is, the True North, Strong and Free. After such a long time away, it feels so familiar — like we never left. I can't dismiss the 19 year adventure living in the USA: all the lovely friends we met, all the amazing career opportunities we had, all the places we traveled, the wonderful homes we made. It's just that the ease with which we slipped back into Canadian life surprises me. Except metric measurements for recipes. I will be consulting an online convertor to figure out ounces to grams for years to come. And getting our driver's licenses — that was truly a trial — for a short time they had Ken registered as Female — their mistake of course, but it was fodder for a bunch of jokes. They asked him to confirm that he's a Male. "Last time I looked," he replied — to an Insurance Corporation of British Columbia employee. 

Everything else is just how I remember it, with the added bonus of being "Retired." The first Tuesday of every month is "Seniors Day" at The Bay — extra discount, just for being over 65. Gotta love that. And without a work schedule to mess us up, we can walk on a beach any old time we want. Ken walks to a beach nearby every day. He has no issue with the 105 steps down a steep stair case to get there, nor the climb back up, but I opt for level beaches only 10-15 minutes drive from home to save the jarring on my knees. We watch Bald Eagles soaring, listen  for seals barking, get reacquainted with the salty fragrance of the shore. 

Our house is close to the ocean, if you haven't guessed. On Vancouver Island, a two hour ferry ride from the mainland. We like to tell people that we have a view of the people who have the view. In other words, we are across the street from the houses that are on the shoreline, but we get pretty swell vistas across to the North Shore Mountains only a block away. Nanaimo is a city of about 100,000; historically a mining/logging/fishing town, but is changing into a retirement haven for escapees from Vancouver's high real estate prices and miserable traffic. That influx is driving a surge in the arts and food scene, but the agricultural aspect of the Island was already well-established and we have found wonderful farm produce in abundance. We already have a favourite pub. 

We miss Dayton, our home in Oakwood, and especially Ken's tenure at the Victoria Theatre Association, as well as my volunteer gigs with Dayton Visual Arts Center and reading with kids at school with my fabulous canine partner, Riley. Mostly we miss Riley, our poor sweet pup. He would have loved it here. He would have gone absolutely bonkers running on the beaches and splashing in the surf. He should have had a chance to retire and grow old alongside us. It wasn't to be.

A couple of days ago we watched the "Bruce Springsteen on Broadway" special on TV. We have listened to Bruce in the car on every road trip we've ever taken. "Thunder Road" was certainly on our play list when we drove from Ohio to British Columbia in late August. His slow, soulful rendition in the Broadway show resonated right back to our young hearts forty years ago when we left our hometown with all of life lying ahead. Hearing it now gives me the same feeling — those two kids are still inside, even at 66 — adventures ahead, new chapters to discover, life to live. Except, this time, we are more at ease, more confident in who we have become, more sure of where we belong: at home, on the couch, in front of the TV watching Hockey Night in Canada. 

May you find your place, cosy, among loved ones, safe, at home or on the road, this holiday season. Peace and joy come to you.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! 

Drop us a line: lesleyneufeld0117@gmail.com OR kenneufeld310@gmail.com

Lesley and Ken 

A She Shed of One's Own

First it was Tiny Houses. Then the Man Cave. And now it's the She Shed. 

It's the latest trend in real estate and the biggest thing since Virginia Woolf declared the joys of "A Room of One's Own." Of course, she was using the term as a metaphor to argue that women needed space in a male-dominated literary world. But still, taken literally, it's a pretty neat idea. A room, a home office, an attic, a corner, and, yes, maybe even a shed. 

Go ahead and google "She Shed." Prepare to fall in love. Close your eyes and dream. What would your very own space look like? A paint-splattered atelier with north-facing skylight? A comfy reading nook with frilly curtains and chintz slip covers? A craft workshop with kiln and potter's wheel? An under-the-rafters sewing station with an eyebrow window that looks out at treetops? A basement renovation for setting up your band saw and drill press? A sound-proof chamber for writing your symphonic magnum opus? A serene meditative space for yoga and herbal tea-drinking? Or a modernist cube of reason where you write your memoirs? 

Heck, you could even have a Martha Stewart gift-wrapping station. Be still my heart.

The very idea conjures images of creative activity. Private musing. Reading a good book and forgetting all about time passing. Safe. Secure. Cozy. Giving your inner designer a chance to come out and play.

I had imagined a garage re-do for our new house. In my mind it looked like a Manhattan loft. In reality it is a two-car unheated storage locker that needs mold remediation.

Instead, I situated a desk facing the living room window and parked my lap top, along with a few decorative items that might have inspired Shakespeare. Wouldn't writing be so lovely with that view? Sure, maybe. But I'd need a space heater, Bob Cratchett gloves, and a lap blanket. Geez, we really need to weather strip that window. 

So, I'm back to the dining room table. It's warm next to the heat vent. It's close to the kitchen for making a cup of tea. Not far from the laundry room for throwing in a load. And I imagine my very own shed in the backyard — a tiny retreat. A haven for art-making, gift-wrapping, and blog-writing. Except in winter months. Or July. 

Apparently even Virginia Woolf fled to a garden outbuilding to write. I think it might have been her who invented the term, "She Shed." But I bet she changed it to "A Room of One's Own" because she was freezing to death out there.