Facts & Arguments is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.
In this story, I am playing the part of Eva Gabor in Green Acres – you know, the pampered city wife whose husband yanks her away from New York to share his hayseed dreams in Hooterville, USA. "You are my wife!" her husband sings in the intro to the 1960s TV show, and she responds, "Goodbye, city life!"
My Canadian version is set in rural Southwestern Ontario during a relentless winter.
My husband promoted our move to Wallaceburg, Ont., from London as an opportunity to build a "cottage" in the country while still maintaining a place in the city.
Our new home, in an idyllic river setting, would be built in three months and we'd spend our summers there, boating, fishing and enjoying all manner of dreamy pastoral occupations. At least that was the pitch last spring. It's March now. I look out on a giant hole in the ground and a partly completed foundation obscured by snow.
I'm gazing out at the frozen tundra from the vantage point of The Loft, a term of endearment I have assigned to the small apartment above the barn that has been my cozy home for more than six months.
My husband enumerated the advantages of living in the country: the open space, the quiet, no neighbours close by. I've learned that advantages are a matter of perspective. I miss my close community in London and the sounds of trains.
I often muse on these things as I cross the barren wasteland, navigating the narrow icy path on the edge of the giant foundation hole, en route to my car parked 100 feet from the loft dwelling. I think of the open space as the perilous frontier I have to conquer before I can gain sanctuary in my car.
Lately, I'm greeted there by some obnoxiously happy country birds that seem oblivious to the fact it is still winter.
Who would have thought the construction of our dream house in the country would take so long to approve? Apparently, idyllic riverside dwellings have to comply with additional building requirements. And who would have guessed the foundation would still be exactly the way we left it when we returned from a two-week holiday in Florida in January? Rested and rejuvenated, we returned to find the only change to the giant hole in the ground was an additional dumping of snow. I realize no one wants to work outside in the bitter cold; I just wish more could have happened during those two days of good weather.
When suffering from cabin fever, one develops mild paranoia. I find myself suspecting that the foundation crew have left their truck parked on our property to create the illusion that they will some day return to complete their task.
In planning the construction of our home, my husband envisioned that it would be well under way by last fall. Never in his wildest imagination did he picture an incomplete foundation in the dead of winter. And that is why I believe he had not foreseen that our not-fully-buried septic system's pipes would freeze while we were away in Florida. It is a fact that neither of us will ever forget.
On the positive side, I would like to say I have become very adept at washing a sinkful of dishes in half a cup of water. In many ways, I have become the environmentalist my daughter always wanted me to be. I wish I could say I've been motivated by an enlightened appreciation of nature, but the truth is the vivid image that inspires my conservation is that of my husband manually pumping out the septic system.
Besides the move to the country, another largeish shift has been the switch from a roomy, 2,500-square-foot new home to a 500-square-foot loft above a century-old barn.
Outside of the downsizing from a home with eight closets to one with zero closets, there are other obvious logistical adjustments. When I tell people, "I can't find anything to wear," I mean it literally. The bulk of our clothes are stored in sealed bins in the vast barn storage rooms downstairs, affectionately named One, Two, Three and Four.
Everything looks neat and organized, and is labelled, but you pack a little more haphazardly when you think you will be unpacking in a few months. After a while, you tire of looking for things. You embrace two favourite sweaters and eat out a lot. I have a very real sense that once we finally unpack, I will wonder what on earth I wanted with all of the stuff!
My husband loves to amuse me by announcing where he is headed in the loft.
"I'm going upstairs," he'll say as he climbs the open steps to our sleeping space a few feet from where I am sitting. Humour is our best weapon as we adjust to our cramped new quarters, our many delays and the infernally long Canadian winter.
But spring is coming. I'm not sure if I trust the predictions of those celebrity groundhogs, but I am kind of inclined to pay attention to the cacophony of the crazy country birds. I suspect one may have been a robin, but I might have been suffering from a recurring case of snowblindness.
Violet Towell lives in Wallaceburg, Ont.