Moving

photo by author

Heading Down Highway 63 – Permanently.

A moving truck, jammed with our household belongings, pulled out of the driveway in Fort McMurray last July. Exhausted, we stood in the driveway for a few moments longer, saying some quick goodbyes to friends and neighbours. After one last look, and an ugly cry (definitely not the first that particular week), we got in our cars and left.

Moving, even under the most privileged of positions that we had (a planned retirement move) is tough. No one tells you when you come up to Fort McMurray for those “two years of work” that there is heartbreak at that end of that highway. But there is. Because most of us eventually leave.

From outside the community, family and friends constantly ask, “when will you leave?” That’s because the city is so darn remote and most can’t envision living there long term – not five years, let alone the 20 or 30 most of our friends and colleagues put in. Eventually, as retirement nears, you ask yourself the same question along with “where will we go?” So, we normalize leaving – we see it coming, we prepare for it, we even applaud and envy those who have moved already.

What we don’t discuss is how hard it is. Leaving your friends, casual acquaintances, hobby groups, all the places you love, and (don’t even get me started!) selling the family home…it’s painful.

After we drove 500 km down Highway 63, the rest of the summer flew by. There was a lot to do – unpacking, figuring out where to shop, setting up new services like dentists and hair dressers, and exploring our new area.

I thought that I had already processed the grief of moving: after all, it took us a year to find a new place, to prep and sell our old home. In that time, we carefully purged belongings that wouldn’t fit in our smaller home, curated mementos from our past, and gave away useful items in multiple yard sales and donation boxes. We painted all the surfaces in the house and fixed all those little things you let slide over the years. This felt like “saying goodbye to the house” and I think it was. We drove around, took pictures of our old haunts, and had several going away get-togethers. I took countless walks to “think about it all.”

Here’s the thing though, thinking about moving is not the same as actually leaving. Sometime in the fall, something went off the rails. As the leaves turned, and the chill came into the air, I didn’t enjoy the glee that sweater weather normally brings me. I almost didn’t “do up” Halloween with my usual zeal.  Pumpkins and lattes didn’t cut it. Something wasn’t right, and I couldn’t shake the dark mood that slowly overtook me. As the time and light got shorter, I felt lost.

“The sadness came upon me,” as they say. Homesickness. Melancholy for our old home and city. I’m still trying to shake it.

What do I miss exactly? All of it.

I miss driving the kids to school, past the Circle K, where we had scores of summer slushies. Past the Boston Pizza – scene of our weekly family dinners. Past the soccer field, where my kids spent so many hours playing pick-up. Past the football field where we cheered for the Trappers on Friday Nights. I miss driving right up to the school curb where I could see other parents, teachers, and coaches. I miss having the van fill up with teenagers.

I miss my nightly walks, leaving my front doorstep to take my “short loop.” I miss passing the work bus stop, sometimes seeing people milling there for night-shift. I miss seeing my favourite mountain ash tree and sliding onto the red gravel path in the green space beside the pond. I miss gazing over that pond to the Birchwood trails where we walked our dogs. I miss the hill where our kids went sledding in winter.

I miss seeing our good friends’ old house on that walk, crossing the street where the kids and I came home from school every day. I miss turning into the park behind our house, where the kids spent their summers with friends.

I miss coming back up my brick walk, to my yellow house, to the door with the fairy stickers on it and I miss opening that door to home.

Recently, our daughter made an Amazon purchase, not noticing the delivery address was still set to our old house. I thought “no problem, I’ll just message a neighbour to go grab it off the porch.” Then it occurred to me, I only knew a few people left on the block well enough to ask. That’s just how it goes in Fort McMurray. Now our old street is mostly filled with new families to enjoy the school grounds, the parks, and the pond. Maybe they will even add to the tree fort my kids built in the park.   

We like our new house, and we like our new community – a lot. There’s a lot of green space, the neighbours are very friendly, and there is an infinite number of creative things to do and see.

It is a lot of wonderful things. But it is not home. Not yet.

Alisa Caswell is an engineer and a writer who lives in Alberta. Read her other articles at  “Confessions of a Dandelion Anarchist” or follow her on   Facebook , LinkedIn, or Twitter