Once upon a time we lived by the Salish Sea.

 

 

At other times we lived in various apartments and looked off our 25th floor balcony over the twinkling lights and wailing sirens of Vancouver.  Other balconies were lower – the  17th, 11th, 5th and 3rd floors. There were other apartments and decks whose storied numbers I no longer recall.

 

 

Long before that, we lived in Mission City. Our wooden deck was huge, overlooking a steep drop-off into the bush. One early evening we heard the pheasants’ loud warning, just before the earthquake made our house thump.

Most recently, our little patio faced onto the quiet beauty of the Sechelt marsh.

And now.

Now our balcony is framed by cathedral-height upright logs, looking into pines and tamaracks, blue-green mountains and other log homes. We’ve discovered that our place is between two game trails, where deer give birth and staggering fawns take their first steps.

 

 

Adapting to a new environment, whether in travel or in a new home, demands a creative response. There is no known routine yet established and there is a constant state of learning required for the simplest of tasks.

I remember being entirely flummoxed by a restroom in Amsterdam. I no longer remember the issue. Was it how to close the door? Turn on the water? Flush the toilet?  What I do remember is the heady feeling of accomplishment when I finally solved the puzzle.

Doesn’t take much to make me feel like a rock star.

The same thing happens in a new home. Sure, this place came with furniture, forks and lamps. But the trick is to put each thing, along with all our stuff, so that it not only looks right, but maximizes its usefulness. Setting up a new home is a wonderful Tetris-like puzzle to be solved.

The little green pot from France is now a salt dish tucked beside Mom and Dad’s old kerosene lantern. The tiny Buddha was purchased on my first ‘real’ press trip to Victoria. It sits on the kitchen windowsill to remind me to take the time to sit and breathe.

 

 

The two wooden shelf units that held towels in the bathrooms, have new lives as a sidebar in the dining room. The retro martini cart from the Sechelt living room is currently holding court as an end table in the new TV room.  The black panther lamp from Dave & Hilda has found a lovely new spot to stalk the light after a five-year hiatus in Saskatoon (thanks Cory & Lea!).

Our big old rusty trunk is on our deck doing double duty as a place to store my encaustic art supplies. It had been stored by the seaside on Stalashen Drive for the last five years (thanks Karen!).  I’ve had that trunk since I was about ten or eleven years old.

 

 

When I was a kid, I was called a tomboy. My mother saved money by cutting my hair herself. She always cut it very short, using a razor up the back of my neck and trimming it around my ears.  I was taller than every other girl in my world and, along with my black horn-rimmed glasses and deep voice, at least once, Mom had to defend my place on the girls’ softball team. I loved to play outside in our back bush and was always part of a large group of neighbourhood kids roaring around Cherry Street, constantly sporting bloody knees.

As extroverted as I was, I also loved to sit alone and read. I was allowed to go to the library on Saturdays, where I pulled out stacks and stacks of books. I no longer recall the book that inspired it, but when I was about ten-years old, I became obsessed with the need for a wooden pirate treasure chest.  I wanted the kind that was curved on top. It was often pictured with its brass-strapped lid tipped open revealing a mass of treasure spilling and sparkling onto the sand of a tropical island.

I wanted that trunk even more than a magnifying glass to start fires (you never know when you might need to survive in the woods!) and more than I wanted a hunting knife that hung from a leather sheath on my belt (so sticks could be whittled into spears!).

In short, I was completely obsessed with owning a treasure chest.

My mother was not one given to frivolous indulgences for herself or her children. I can’t think of a hobby she enjoyed. Even when she did Liquid Embroidery on tea towels, it always seemed more like a duty than an act of creativity. I cannot recall a single time where I saw her read for pleasure. As far as I can recollect she only read her Bible and the book of Daily Devotions. I was often chastised when she came upon me reading when I could have been doing something ‘to show for myself’.

So when Mom came home with this old trunk for me, it was a big deal. It was a large, completely unexpected and very unusual gift, especially as it wasn’t my birthday or Christmas. Even so, I was secretly disappointed that it was not a proper curved wooden chest like my fictional fantasies. I sincerely hope that my childhood self hid that disappointment. I hope I knew to pretend it was perfect. I think I did, but I’m not sure.

That this trunk is still in my life, after so many moves, now strikes me as nothing short of miraculous. When I consider how much we have given away, sold, or edited our stuff over the years, this trunk (except for the few years of storage on Karen’s deck) always made the cut.

The leather straps are broken and deteriorated. It is a miracle that it opens as well as it does with all the rust. The decaying wallpaper lining the inside of the trunk is from 1985, from the first home Kevin and I purchased in Campbell River. It makes me smile every time I lift the lid to see our earnest pick of the prancing deer border. Between our fancy wallpaper and the genuine brass light switch plates, we were pretty confident we’d nailed the decorating game.

 

 

When I look at this battered old trunk, I realize it has always held dreams, memories and hope. With all its connections to the past, it is now helping to make our newest house into a home.

But more than all of that, it tells the story of a mother trying so hard to fulfill her little girl’s bookish dreams.

Thanks Mom, turns out that it was the perfect treasure chest all along.