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hasta la vista

This is the last thing I’ll do on this computer today, I think. It’s 2 p.m. Thursday March 28, and in about 20 minutes, I’ll leave for Anna’s across town, for a farewell dinner with the family and Sam before I head to the UP train to Pearson, which isn’t far from their place. The suitcase is closed and I’m in my travel gear – stretchy pants and stretchy bra, with headphones, eyeshades, a travel pillow and two empty water bottles in my backpack, to be filled on the other side of security.

In an amazing coincidence, the final city inspection of the house was an hour ago. We passed, and the white sign came down from the front window. Our work is officially done and approved. Even though, of course, it isn’t, there are still myriad small details and even bigger things still to deal with. But the construction is done, the destruction too, thank God. When I write the story of this renovation, I’m going to call it “Men in my House.” Even now, Dan the painter arrives at 9.30, Kevin arrived to do stuff today before the inspection. I won’t know what to do with myself when I get back and am alone, without forty-two men charging about making noise and dust.


I am as usual nervous and speedy; wish I had my daughter’s phlegmatic disposition. Nothing fazes her or disturbs her sleep, except of course her children. Whereas Sam and I are the anxious type. He, incidentally, cooked me a divine dinner of rainbow trout in sauce with potatoes, mushrooms and green beans, and then suggested I watch some of last season’s Game of Thrones with him. It’s stunningly beautiful to look at and the acting is fabulous, but it’s just too violent for me, a murder, a battle, a horrible thing happening every few minutes, and I with my eyes and ears covered. Finally I couldn’t take it, spectacular tho’ every shot is.

The fridge is nearly empty. The dishwasher has run. Nicole has been briefed about every conceivable thing. All the men have been paid. My bank account is not to be thought about right now. The sky is grey, though the sun came out briefly, and my upstairs hall was awash in sunlight. I will eventually get used to that.

Au revoir, my friends. Happy spring. I look forward to writing to you from France.



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About Beth

I began keeping a journal at the age of nine. Nearly fifty years later, I started this online journal, sharing reflections, reviews, updates, and the occasional secret.

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