Home. It means a lot of things to a lot of people. Right now, being home is important as a way to protect others and preventing the spread of COVID-19. With that in mind, I thought I would reflect on my home and the homes I have had in the last twenty-nine years of my life. I am grateful to have had many, giving me opportunities to see many places across the country and across the world, if you can believe it (another perk of working for Royal Caribbean International and having your address be a cruise ship).

I was born in Northern Ontario. We didn’t live there for very long. And by ‘we’, I mean my parents and I, little as I was. We moved from our first home when I was around the age of two. As I was so young, I don’t have any memories of my first home, save for what I am told (like how our couch needed to be lifted up and over the garage to make it into the top floor apartment). But I suppose you could say that my first and forever home is that of my parental unit.

My parents have been together for over thirty years now and are steadfastly planning for their eventual retirement. My parents are strong and loving and kind. And while I am now old enough to see the bits within them that I’d like to change in the way I live my life, at my age it is not uncommon for me to say, “Oh my gosh, I am turning into my mother!” It’s not a bad thing. It’s a compliment, truly. My best friend and I would joke about exactly that in university, when we started to notice those first tell-tale signs that we were becoming our mothers. I think I am a pretty great blend of my parents, between habits, personality traits, and taste, and we’re a pretty cohesive unit. So, for that reason, they have been and will always provide that sense of home.

From Northern Ontario, we moved to the Nepean / Ottawa area of the province. This is where my little sister was born and added the spice and flavour to our family unit. I remember the day she was born specifically because I was gifted with a vanilla dip donut, a chocolate milk, and a baby sister all in one day.

Growing up we looked similar and, given our red hair and blue eyes, we received more than a few comments featuring the words “Are you girls twins?” No, no we are not. I have been and always will be a little curvier than my sister, and when I moved out at nineteen to go to university, our tastes diverged hardcore. But we have that sister shorthand that most siblings will understand. Ours is a very informal language with ‘yeahs’ and ‘uhuhs’ and that freaky ability to know what the other is thinking without the requirement of clarification or even full sentences. For a long time, home meant Mom, Dad, Sister, and Me. This is no longer the case since my sister has struck out on her own and found her independence in British Columbia. No matter though, we’ll be best friends for life and there’s no amount of distance between us that will change that.

We moved into a house in Russell, ON after my sister was born. It was a brand-new build with an unfinished basement and a dirt backyard (that eventually had grass). I built my first snowman in that yard, smashed my finger in the car door of my Mom’s Honda (not on purpose), and got my first stitches. The stitches are a fun story that I always love telling.

I was five and I was jumping on the couch – because I had been specifically told not to, of course – and like the little dummy I was, slipped and face-planted into the corner of one of my Dad’s giant-ass floor speakers. Bullseye! Mom was frantic. Emergency Services were called, and the Fire Department showed up. They gave me a teddy bear I lovingly still call Pooh-Bear, likely because he reminded me of Winnie the Pooh but was not in fact a likeness of the infamous bear. Pooh-Bear is unique. As a result of the incident, I now have a scar on the right side of my face, expertly placed, as if it had been my plan all along, which happens to resemble a one-sided dimple.

Following our time at Russell, due to a job opportunity for my father, we moved to Waverley, Nova Scotia, just outside of Dartmouth and Halifax. We moved into what my then seven-year old mind and my now twenty-nine-year-old mind would describe as “a big house” (because I now watch far too much HGTV). It had wrap around windows in the living room, a separate dining room, a breakfast nook attached to the kitchen, my parents had a main-floor master with an ensuite and jacuzzi tub which I now realize I didn’t take nearly enough advantage of while we lived there. My sister and I shared the second floor with our own bedrooms and a second full bath. My room was decorated in colours from a quilt my Gran had sewed for me: red, blue, and yellow. Bright and vibrant. My sister had the more muted greens and pale pinks. There was also a finished basement which became our playroom. The house backed on to a wooded area (where I was convinced there was quick sand), but the front of the house had a cul-de-sac driveway and a basketball net. We were two houses away from a park and playground. I was seven going on eight while we lived here.

A lot of what I remember from living in Waverley has been documented in family photo albums. I couldn’t tell you if I remember the actual events occurring or do I only remember they happened because we have proof of it happening? Who can say, really? Memory is a tricky thing. I remember a birthday party (it was Sailor Moon themed and my Mom hung mini donuts from strings where my friends and I then competed to see how fast we could eat them without using our hands), a Halloween (pretty sure I was Catwoman), I lost my two front teeth, and my Grandparents came for a visit (they and my parents had lobster while my sister and I had spaghetti with butter and parmesan cheese). There were also trips to P.E.I. and Green Gables and Peggy’s Cove.

While it didn’t last long, I will always have fond memories of living on the East Coast of Canada and it is my dearest wish to road trip there again one day. I have since met many people from there and they are just the most warm-hearted and welcoming people (Come From Away, anyone?) We moved away from Nova Scotia when I was eight following a job transition for my Dad once again where we would make the long, long, very long trip to the Northwest Territories.

Now, I read somewhere on the internet that the average person only reads about a 600 word blog post. The world wide web has given us very short attention spans. I am not blameless in this either. So that is why I have chosen to make this tale about Home a series rather than a 3000 word essay.

So, I’m eight when we leave Nova Scotia, which means there is still 20 years of life left to explore. I hope you come back because this story is to be continued…