The legend in my family that I have heard my mother tell on numerous occasions. In May of 1970, on the day that they moved in to the house they still occupy, my father stood at the top of the stairs and proclaimed "We are Never. Moving. Again". So far he is true to his word. This week I found out why he made that proclamation thirty-six years ago.

The sale of our house was final on the 15th. Which means we are now unemployed and homeless. Nothing says success like being thirty-eight years old and living in your parents basement. Just for a week.

It has been said that the stress of moving is second only to the loss of a loved one. I'll agree with that. The entire experience of packaging all of my posessions in to boxes and ramming a storage unit full to bursting had me in a frenzy. I never want to move again. Oh, wait.

Fortunately, the counterpoint to my day of hyperventilation was Joanne's contstant reassurance that it would all be O.K. Which it was. We finished moving out of the house in plenty of time, left the keys on the counter and walked away. Walked away because we have sold the car.

One week left in Canada and then we are off to London.