Thinking outside the box isn’t easy when you can’t get out of the box. I know this, because at times, I think of my house as my box that I rarely leave anymore.
Is that why cats get into boxes? So they feel protected and don’t have to think about what’s outside?
I’ll have to ask a cat someday.
But I mean sure, we have movies, TV, books, the internet—they all help us to escape the box and think outside of it. They’re not the same as actually living it, though.
I fear sometimes that I’m getting far too comfortable in my box. C’mon, though. I live in my PJs! Who wouldn’t be comfortable?
Just a quickie to say I got home safely. I woke up this morning at six – thirty one and a half hours ago – and now I’m ready for bed. As you can well imagine. I’ll go through the pictures tomorrow if I can actually stay cognizant long enough.
I used to go there as a kid. My friends and I spent hours there, or sometimes I’d just go alone and sit. The locks were unused even back then – the place was run down and at the end of a dusty old road that went no where, it was rare to see people there. That was my experience of Newmarket, Ontario, Canada in the seventies. It was where I spent most of my time.
The picture was taken two and a half years ago. I went back, on my own just to see how much had changed.
They’ve turned it into a public trail now. “Beautified” it–in my estimation it was beautiful when it was solitary. There were so many people walking across the bridge on the day I was there, but few came down to my spot under the tree where I would sit and contemplate life and make up stories as a kid.
I could barely hear them over the sound of the rushing water, so I felt at peace still. I remember sitting on the big final step with my legs dangling over, wondering how cold the water was. There were rumours that people had drowned in the current – I doubt it’s very deep, but you never know. In years gone by there was water running down the other side too… the level was much higher back then.
Now the fence prevents anyone from exploring like I used to. There was no fence back then. Just the drop.
That day two years ago I remember not wanting to leave. I must have sat on that concrete slab for two hours or more. I kept saying to myself, “I don’t want to go.”
It’s a bitter-sweet feeling, revisiting a place that means so much – that so much of the past can be remembered by. The sharp scent of iron in the water, the constant, unending shush of the waterfall, the birds chirping in the trees, the heat of the summer rising humidly from the ground.
It didn’t matter that I didn’t want to leave that spot; I knew I had to get up and go eventually.
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The rules that I’ve made for myself (but don’t always follow) for “One-Liner Wednesday” are:
Over the course of my day today, I will be going through boxes in my basement to find things I want to get rid of sell in a garage sale next week. First, I could use the extra space, second, I want to declutter, and third, I need the money for a trip I’m going to take in December.
I feel fortunate to live in a place where I can stand on my front lawn and sell things I no longer need. Garage sales are big here – I don’t know if they are in other places in North America. People spend their entire weekends out driving around town looking for bargains, and bartering around prices until they get what they want for next to nothing. Even if I get next to nothing, I figure I’ll be up a little bit from what I had when my stuff was sitting in the basement just growing older.
It’s amazing the things we accumulate, isn’t it? I have boxes of things I haven’t looked at since I moved them here almost five years ago from my house in Gatineau, and most of THAT stuff was already in boxes there and hadn’t been used in the fifteen years I was there. I would love to live light, with few possessions. But when you have a six bedroom house with a basement it’s difficult to justify getting rid of anything – I have the room. I have rooms I rarely go into so the mess gets ignored.
I was very lucky to find this house when I first moved here. It was originally a two bedroom bungalow, but the previous owners built three bedrooms and a half bath into the attic. When I moved in I kept one of the two original bedrooms as a guest room and turned the other bedroom into a computer room. The final room my eldest son moved into – he was happy to have the entire basement to himself and, as teenagers are wont to do, came out only for meals, showers, and to go out with his friends. He was as white as a ghost before he moved out.
Ragweed season is here and both Alex and I are sneezing. That was a left turn out of nowhere!
Wish me luck with my sorting and selling, if you please.
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