Hope . . . kinda

So yeah, we’ve been transferred. It’s an ongoing part of the RCMP festival.

We’ve been at our current post for about 4 and a half years now, and it’s time to move on. In fact, it’s a little past time.

We’ve been in Manitoba for about 15 years. We’ve had our children here. We’ve been to the north, to the south, to the “big” cities and to the tiny towns. We’ve seen a Goldeyes game, experienced the Forks and had dinner and 529 Wellington. The wife’s been to Churchill and I’ve driven a 6-tonne snowmobile trail groomer across a frozen Lake Winnipeg, as the ice cracked beneath me.

We’ve been to a Hutterite Colony, driven the TransCanada from east to west and west to east. We’ve been to the Potato Festival, the Strawberry Festival and Islendingadagurinn, the August Long Weekend in Gimli that celebrates Icelandic Heritage in the area. Mostly, however, it seems to celebrate drunken stupidity and the violence that goes with it. 

But we’ve been transferred to British Columbia and we’re excited about it. It’s an unusual transfer, because the RCMP likes to keep it’s people in one province as much as they can. But we managed to make our case to the right people and, about six months ago, we got the coveted transfer order.

And, by the time the paperwork crawled through the system, last fall’s real estate market was well into its annual hibernation. So we’ve been waiting . . . enduring the occasional showing of our home . . . all through the winter.

I can’t talk much more about it, for fear of the toxic emotion known as hope. In a “down” real estate market, it’ll kill ya.

Suffice to say we are looking forward, with measured detachment, to the sale of our home. It’s the best we can muster for now.