Even the movers can't stand that we're leaving

We spent the day yesterday dashing around throwing all the stuff we don't really need into boxes. Exhausted, we collapsed into comfy chairs with tinkling Dark and Stormy's (dark rum, ginger beer, a squeeze of lime -- a spicy little seastorm in a glass) to survey the jumble of possessions. Our habits map out nicely in the arrangements of our boxes. One or two boxes of spices in the kitchen, a huge pile of heavy boxes filled with computers and books in the study, and many boxes in the upper rooms filled with clothes we never wore. What was I thinking in bringing six dress shirts? Working at home means sitting in your boxers until the sun goes down, if that's what you want. What was the love of my life thinking when she brought an entire suitcase full of shoes? Well. She was thinking that physicians normally wear business attire to the office and not jeans and sneakers. Now she knows better.

We couldn't find a box for my drum. I can't believe that I have a drum. Some other occupants of the house can't believe it either. The person who bought it for me can't believe it. That I have it or that she bought it.

And as we survey all of this mess and slide into the soft, dark happiness of our drinks, listening to the cooing of toddlers who show signs that they may soon fall asleep, the telephone rings. It's the moving company. They are based in Newfoundland. They could cross over to the mainland. Theoretically. The ferry is running. But the winds are high. It would be a rough 14 hour crossing. Do we mind if they wait for a couple of days?

We think not.