Sometimes I am asked for advice, or ‘my take’ on a particular subject.  Like real estate, or restaurants, or neighbourhoods.  In the past I might have launched into a personal and not-always-evidence-based  point of view.  Then one day, after a bit of a contretemps with a colleague, my brother Deo pointed out there is a better way to convey what you think.

I should say that my brother, as a fraternal twin, is very competitive and not beyond leading me astray in order to win an advantage.

“A story speaks your truth,” he insists “without offending or pumping up your ego.”

So, when he said one day, “If I am going to move to the County, I want to simplify my life,” I told him a story about downsizing, and how to unload possessions. I told him what I did when I sold Cressy House, my restored compound of farm buildings at the water’s edge just past Waupoos.

THE “CHAI” A French word meaning a wine store, and also a stone building at the foot of the driveway. (Submitted Photo)

In this case, a stranger came down the long grassy drive in the rain.  A cold hard day in April. He disgorged himself from a Range Rover and stood in the drizzle, taking it all in. The raw and the wild. The quiet and the peace. The vineyard and the lavender.  I intercepted the interloper on his way to the height of land above the lake. He, handsome and young, two sleeves of tattoos under black leather, came right to the point.

This was my introduction to Grant, four months later the owner of Cressy House, the property I had put together like a giant art installation over a twenty- year period.

We know timing is everything in life, but how did he know that I was thinking about making a move, to downsize and declutter while I had the energy and health to do it.

After several more visits, some planned, some spontaneous, I realized that this unannounced outsider was serious and had the resources to buy Cressy House. The terms were settled quickly.  A late closing meant I had time to attack the job of pruning and deconstructing a lifetime of acquisitions, including the contents of previous houses in Lunenburg and Ottawa. The already daunting undertaking was multiplied by the accumulation of much of the contents of my parents’ apartment in Montreal, which I had been warehousing since they died.

I tried to channel the Japanese approach to what they call “the life-changing magic of tidying up,” the theory being that if you surround yourself only with items that “spark joy,” by putting your house in order, you put your past in order.

I surprised myself how quickly I was able to apply the red “TO GO” sticker to furniture. Jam cupboards, armoires, painted tables and chests, dozens of lamps and paintings — all moved to my default depository in the “chai,” a French word meaning a wine store, and also a stone building at the foot of my driveway.  By the middle of July the chai was packed with goodies. A tsunami of disposal fervour had swept over me.

Nobody wanted the stuff, least of all family, who countered my friendly offers of lamps or a chest with “no thank-you,” and, “no room.” Hardy trash, the entrails of a life’s trajectory.  The Ladies Hospital Auxiliary in Picton started receiving daily deposits of boxed treasures. One day my partner, Joanie, made a suggestion that virtually cleaned out the inventory of my life’s artefacts. All house guests and dinner guests, in a season crammed with final visits and farewells, were steered to the chai as they left the Cressy compound. You would be surprised what friends will select when pressed by the host to “Please take something!”

By Labour Day, the downsizing juggernaut had been calmed. It was the small items, the documents, the photos, the family tokens, that I struggled with most. I moved many boxes to temporary storage in Picton, crammed with family and personal mementos that represented the thread and fabric of a singular life, mine, and that I wasn’t prepared to part with. I even packed my father’s moldy half blue blazer he had worn at Oxford as a Rhodes’ Scholar who represented the university in lacrosse.  My mantra just slightly modified the Japanese dictum to spark joy: Retain everything that invokes memories and emotional connections. Close enough.

Joanie sensibly talked me out of relocating the three dog tombstones to the Rose Cemetery down the road, where my own burial plot is marked out.  Harry, Henry, and Roger remain in their graves under the apricot trees at Cressy House. I wonder if home ownership is all it’s cracked up to be. As much as I feel naked and stripped of my possessions, a carefree spirit has been liberated.  I am no longer hostage to home maintenance. I no longer obsess about household improvements. I am reborn.