The US PBS channel is a favourite channel. I record what I fancy then pick through the gems when I am granted a minute or two. Last night, over the course of about six, constantly interrupted, hours, I watched John Wayne’s, The Alamo.
It reminded me that, though we are from elsewhere, this is where we too will make our last stand. For fun though, since that seems so dramatic, let’s recap where we have been, if only to dispel that all to common rumor that we are in the witness protection program.
We first lived together in Alcester, just outside of Stratford-Upon-Avon in England. From there we moved to Scotland, for the first few weeks to a strange assortment of rooms at the top of a very grand house in the Murrayfield neighborhood, then to our first home in The Kingdom of Fife, a tiny village called Kingskettle that one of the children promptly nicknamed Queen’s Teapot. This place was chosen to be near said children, that I inherited with the relationship.
This was when we started to really embrace moving. We moved to the High Street in South Queensferry, sandwiched between the rail bridge and the road bridge, living in a three storey, yet tiny house, with views across the Firth of Forth and the haunting sound of fog horns. Then a baby on the way and we were off again, this time to a much larger home, barely on the edge of Fife, an Old Schoolhouse. Rambling. Roomy. We sold part of the yard to someone to build their dream home then decided to do the same.
We bought land close to Cupar and during construction we were guests of the Over Rankeilour Farms, in an assortment of their cottages and stables (very biblical). Construction was slow and tedious and when the place was eventually functional, we both took jobs in Aberdeenshire and switched between Fife and the north east. Long story but we quit Aberdeenshire and moved back to Edinburgh jobs, sold our ‘dream’ home, turns out knowing where every nail missed a spot isn’t as much fun as it sounds, and ended up in Kinross as commuters. Inching back to Edinburgh, now closer to hubbie’s relatives, especially as his other children had by now moved to the outer edges of the British Isles, the Orkney Islands, and not just the main island, a tiny wee island, down windy causeways that were treacherous in the winter visits, we moved to Kirkliston, a hot bed of Masons, that baffled my mother as it had no Catholic church…at least they had stopped burning them.
From there we decided to take a leap and move to the US on a relocation organised by my employer, more on that some other time.
The last of the boxes have been emptied, some brutally by being tipped on their end. Most of the cardboard, with its damp, achy smell, is gone, with only a final pile in the garage ready to go tomorrow. There have been no art classes, no Tai Chi, just mindless emptying, sorting, constant laundry and fractured nights as hubbie reacquaints himself with his old home. Decision fatigue has overwhelmed me at times so some things have disappeared into chests filed under, Must Fix Later.
Then there is the annoying cupboard, that really should have a special something in it and during unpacking looked like this as I threw metal type cooking equipment inside with nary a care:
To now this cheap and cheerful, crate version:
And now what?
Glad you are in your home and can settle in. Big, not so pleasant job. Sounds like it was an adventurous journey to get to where you are now. It is interesting to look back at all the twists and turns of life. Take care.