We heard them before we saw them. The trucks lumbered up Cartier Avenue; one gigantic semi to transport our effects into storage, and a smaller one to move our personal items to Mistissini. I feel a tightening in my chest. This is it. This is REALLY it. Piece, by piece our lives are being disassembled, to be reassembled at another place and time.
The packers showed up the day before, filling our house with the shrill, piercing sound of ripping tape, transforming flat cartons into squares, and the loud, rumpling and crumbling of brown paper wrapping our glassware.
The movers trudged in and out, lugging furniture, heavy boxes and tools. Did we ever not realize how much we had stored in the cellar and garden shed? The movers where unflappable, doing what had to be done. After several runs to Tim Horton’s for energizing large cartons of coffee and boxes of donuts, they just kept on going!
I was packing up our liquor cabinet; a couple of bottles wine (for cooking, of course), a bottle of rum (for medicinal purposes) and brandy (to baste my fruit cakes) to be sent to Mistissini, when one of the movers pointed at my box.
“Nous ne pouvons pas transporter cela,” he said. “Tu as besoin de le cacher.”
Andy and I had discussed living in a “dry” community; and had considered going dry for about four minutes. We were told that being a dry community meant that liquor could not be sold in the town. It was also suggested that we not drink a beer on our patio or leave empty bottles in our recycling as it could cause problems.
No, Andy wasn’t ready to give up our beer and samosa nights on Fridays, and I do so like my glass of red wine …