As I mentioned, our packing process involved separating all our worldly possessions into several piles by category. Things to be discarded. Things to be put on a ship. Things to be put in our suitcases. And the in-between case: things that we-don't-need-to-carry-with-us-right-now-but-we-really-can't-live-without-them-for-two-months-while-it-crosses -the-Atlantic-and-clears-customs. This category went into a smallish grouping that was put on a plane, and would only take a couple of weeks to get to us. (1 day to make the journey. 13 days to clear customs.) It consisted of the clothes that didn't fit in our suitcase, most of our kitchenware and dishes and the like, my main computer, that type of thing. Last week, we got all excited when they called to schedule delivery of this shipment. Saturday morning, the guy with the truck pulled up, and my daughter and I ran out to meet him. She was excited because, hey, it's like Christmas. All that stuff we get to open. (Never mind that we just saw it in England two weeks ago). I was excited because, you know, it's got my computer in there. And I'm kind of going through withdrawal. Truck-Man gets out of his truck and instead of "hello" says, "There's a problem with your shipment." Uh-oh. Um. Ok. "It's all here," says Truck-Man, "it's just not all on my truck. There was a mix-up back in the warehouse, and Joey only put part of it on my truck. The rest will come out to you on Monday." Ok, whew. I can deal with this. I mean, no worries, Joey. Everybody makes mistakes. What's another two days? (You see where my polly-anna attitude is headed for a fall already, don't you? You cynic you.) So we unload the six (out of 24) boxes that we were expecting (what can I say? We've got a lot of clothes.) And we get some cool things. 1 wine glass. 1 regular glass. My main PC and monitor (but no cables or keyboard, which makes it kind of a giant paperweight). Our knife set and some clothes. Ok, cool. Monday dawns bright and clear, and everything is right in the world. Except they don't know where the rest of our stuff is. I mean, they know it's here somewhere. But it's, like, a really big warehouse. And Joey's still looking. It'll turn up, though. Don't you worry. Which is good, because I had only packed enough clothes for a limited duration, and the two pair of shorts I have are getting pretty tired. Wednesday, I hadn't heard from anybody, and I'm beginning to worry that Joey's been enjoying a new set of dishes and maybe some of my Bride's frillier underwear. Which would be fine, normally. I mean, I don't judge. But I'd really like my stuff now, you know. That's why we set it aside to get here quicker. (Meanwhile, the ship with our couch and other stuff arrived, and our household goods have begun the customs process. Which means they'll get here before the stuff that was so-expensively shipped via a plane.) Today, they called us to tell us that Joey found our stuff. And the elastic in my Bride's frilly undies weren't too badly stretched. Hooray! But, um, there's one itty-bitty problem. They had accidentally put it on a ship headed for Singapore. Singapore, Massachusetts? Um, no sir. Singapore, Singapore. Like the one in the South Pacific. WTF. No worries, though, sir. It should arrive in Singapore on the 24th of August, and we'll turn it right back around and bring it here (where it can go through customs again). At this rate, we should see our stuff some time in 2010. Dandy. Oh, and the dog shit in the front seat of my Bride's brand new Volvo. How was your day?

Unlike the California house, where I knocked down pretty much every non load-bearing interior wall, my Bride and I agreed up front that I'd limit my urges towards home improvement to manageable, non-structural changes for the new house. So this week, after hauling 34 boxes of books up the stairs to the room over the garage, I brought in a carpenter to see about some built-in shelf units. Hopefully in time for the additional boxes on their way from England. Joel's a good old fashioned, New Yankee type carpenter, complete with belly-expanding tool belt, and tolerant of my urge to bond over power tools. While exchanging masculine grunts and liberally exchanging dialogue including words like "kerf" and "dado", we started talking about this house, and what I would and wouldn't do myself. For example, I shared with him the plans for me to frame in part of the old attic to create a playroom space for the kids. Pseudo-Norm: Neat space, isn't it? Me: Yep. It's got great potential. The floor boards are amazing. Him: Did you notice where the past residents had carved stuff into the rafters and stuff? Me: Eh? No, I hadn't noticed. . Him: Yeah. There's that one spot where someone carved something like "Mother died here" and a date. Me: ... um... really? Him: All the contractors thought that was kind of weird. Me: ... um... Him: Isn't it a neat space? Me: ... um... Me: ... Me: ...ok. Really, all I could think was "OK: how do I tell my Bride that our house is one projectile vomit away from Amytiville?" And then I went and quietly curled into a fetal position with my crucifix. When the sun came up the next morning in a coinicidental rediscovery of my non-superstitious masculinity, I was able to creep upstairs without visions of the Omen dancing in my head. On the door to the attic, I found a series of simple, home-spun graffiti on the inside of the door, which looks like a fifth grader was practicing his cursive, and a simple, sweet rememberance of a mother's passing date scribbled in about the same way I used to secretly scribble up my textbooks. Rather than sending shivers crawling down my spine in a way that M. Knight Shyamalamadingdong can only dream of, it made me feel more connected to the families that have lived in this house in the past. In a home that is literally older than the country I hail from, we're merely the latest in a series. We're caretakers, rather than simply occupants. And rather than banishing the memories of those that came before us, we will weave our own story into the history of our home as a family. Which is an amazing kind of connection to our home that I certainly never felt in our 1950's tract-built home in California or even the several hundred year old converted potato barn we lived in during our stay in the UK. In a week and a half, I've found a deeper connection to our new home than I felt in six years in California. And if maybe there's some extra holy water, a visit from our neighborhood catholic priest, and a liberal sprinkling of garlic in our own little bit of weaving here, that's just coincidence. Happy, non-spooky coincidence. :)