When we took Mowat for a walk this morning, we could smell mould on the forest floor, and up the street, the house on the corner is covered in overgrown ivy.
It’s like a rain-forest here, compared to the dry (and, I hear, lovely) days in The Pas.
Because it was so hot at home when we left, we packed lots of shorts and T-shirts and not quite enough clothing to cover up against the wet.
But this morning’s cool dampness has allowed me to continue with the task I’ve come here (in part) to do: sort through and burn stuff.
When we moved west, I left a few boxes in my mom and step-dad’s basement and circumstances are such that I’ve gotta be a grown-up now and take them home.
Two of the boxes are journals, which I kept rigorously from the time I was eight until I was around thirty. There are about 80 of them, with only one missing, but that’s another story.
The other three boxes are writing of various sorts: notebooks to add to the many shoved into the moving van in the first place and letters, a lot of letters.
One of boxes – a bright yellow Wolf Blass Cabernet Sauvignon cardboard container mooched off the LCBO – contains all my notes, drafts, research articles, etcetera, from writing Swarm.
Of course, I have to keep that, so, ultimately, I haven’t parted with much.
Most will make the 30-plus hour trek home with us and be added to the basement archives up north but I did find a few things that could be vanquished: a couple one-off letters from people I can’t remember and two full, late drafts of Swarm with hardly any red comments.
So that is what I’m up to today – slipping paper and ink into the flames, warming myself against the chill of this autumnal Ontario August.