Open House: A Life in 32 Moves by Jane Christmas

Author:Jane Christmas [Christmas, Jane]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Biography & Autobiography, Personal Memoirs, House & Home, Remodeling & Renovation, Architecture, General
ISBN: 9781443458771
Google: 37meDwAAQBAJ
Amazon: 1443458767
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2020-03-24T20:41:48.094000+00:00

13

The Neighbourhood

“There’s a Christmas tree in our front garden,” mumbles The Husband, not looking up from his work. He is in the master bedroom, on hands and knees, pulling staples and small nails from the floorboards in preparation for sanding the floors.

“Yeah, I saw them. Cute, eh? Wonder how high they will grow.”

I am looking distractedly out the window at the street. A group of Muslim men and boys in their white thobes and taqiyahs are parading silently on their way to Friday prayers at the mosque around the corner. It is the middle of Ramadan.

Right this second, a cultural—or is it a linguistic?—difference is playing out in our soon-to-be bedroom, because when I turn to The Husband, he is looking at me with incomprehension. We have reached one of those “We both speak English, but I do not understand you” impasses.

Whoever assumes that English and Canadian are the same language has never been in an English/Canadian marriage. It is not just the accent, but the cadence, the place of emphasis on a word, the shorthand speak that his culture understands but that mine does not. Couples in same-culture relationships develop a linguistic shorthand that both understand. If I said to The Husband “Goin’ for a Tim’s,” he would not know what the hell I was talking about. (And because Tim Horton’s outlets do not—praise the Lord—exist in the UK, he need not worry that I will ever say that to him.) I once asked if we were “taking a subway,” and he could not understand why I wanted a fast-food sandwich on the Tube. We almost came to blows one time when I referred to his “housecoat” and he insisted he did not have one.

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I do not.”

“It is hanging on the back of the bedroom door.”

And still he could not understand what I meant, until he finally said, “That is not a housecoat. It is a dressing gown. Housecoat. What an absurd term.”

“Who but people born in the 1920s uses the term dressing gown anymore?”

When we realize that we are speaking about two different things, we revert to those oft-used responses “What?” or “Sorry?” or “Pardon?”

“What?” he asks now.

“Christmas tree?” I query.

“Grow?” he asks. “Looks pretty dead to me.”

“The three miniature evergreens? In our front garden? Is that what you mean?” They are hidden among a dense tangle of foliage. I am surprised he even noticed them. I make a mental note to transplant them before building debris gets dumped on them.

“Not those. I mean a real tree.”

“But they are real.”

“Not those. The Christmas tree.”

“What?”

Again I look down from the window into our front courtyard. There, leaning against our low wall, is a desiccated, rust-coloured fir tree with strands of silver tinsel struggling to liberate themselves from the ignominy. Arranged around the base of the tree, like presents, are several bags of garbage. At least, I hope it is only garbage.

“The bloody nerve!” I explode.

The Husband keeps his head down and returns to the forensic work of plucking staples from the floorboards.

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