Ted Barris

My wife’s sister has been visiting from Saskatchewan the past two weeks. Unlike that cliché that a husband loathes spending time with his in-laws, I have always enjoyed time spent with Pat, as I did with the sisters’ parents. There is generally one time during Pat’s visits, however, when I sense I’d better butt out. That’s when I hear either my wife Jayne or Pat say:

“OK, let’s do some rearranging around the house.”

To her credit, my wife’s sister knows what she’s doing in that regard. Pat is an artist. She has a sixth sense for space, colour, texture, design and how to keep all those concepts from fighting each other. When it comes to positioning paintings or photographs on the wall, for example, she instinctively knows what should hang where. She understands the human tendency never to throw anything away and she usually helps us find places to hide the clutter and/or sometimes part with it. She can look around a room and instantly visualize where a bookshelf, a floor lamp, a coffee table, end tables and a couch might be more ergonomically placed.

I have much admiration for my sister-in-law in many other respects than just her interior design sense. She understands animals, whether house pets or the barnyard variety. She has raised a son as well as a daughter (I haven’t done the former). She understands politicians more clearly than most of us and has written some unique observations about some of the best (and worst) of them; one day I hope she publishes those revelations. And she has survived some pretty tough emotional events in her time.

There’s also the fact that I owe Pat a great deal. Years ago, when Jayne and I moved out West for the second time, we had absolutely no place to stay. We were just married. We were just starting our careers. We were essentially penniless. And we needed a roof over our heads. Pat and her husband Bill took us in. And not just for a few weeks. It was more like a year. (There aren’t humanitarian awards great enough for such valour.)

Nevertheless, when the two sisters decide they’re going to do some “rearranging,” that’s usually my cue to get out of the way or get lost. The last time Pat was here and the sisters tackled our master bedroom I remember distinctly returning home late that night. The lights were out. The sisters were asleep, I thought. And then as I began to climb the stairs through the darkness to the master bedroom, I heard Pat’s voice from downstairs.

“Careful in your bedroom. We moved the furniture around,” she said, then added, “Don’t worry, the bed’s still in the same place.”

Well, this past week, the sisters got back to rearranging. This time they meant business. One evening when I returned from work, they had moved all the dining room furniture in the front parlour of the house into what had been the living room at the back of the house, and vice versa. Tables, chairs, TVs, pictures and couches had all changed places end to end. It took me a few days to stop stubbing my toes on the chair or table legs that had not been there 12 hours before.

Once the superficial stuff was done, they began shuffling the contents. And everything was fair game: books and magazines, bread and butter, knives and forks, you name it. I maintained my silence for most of the early going. Just now and then I would quietly ask: “Anybody tell me where the coffee cups have gone?” or “Is the dog’s leash hanging somewhere new?”

Then, last Wednesday night arrived. The sisters were out. I had the place to myself. I did a little writing. I walked the dog, now that I had relocated his leash. Then about 9:30 p.m. – half an hour before my Uxbridge Oilies’ ice time at the arena – I went to the usual spot for my hockey stick and gear. Not there in the corner by the door. Oh well, I thought, they must be in the hall. A bedroom. Down a stairwell. Stowed in the basement. Wrong on all counts. Now I was in a panic. My pre-game time to kibitz with the guys and get suited up was fast disappearing. And maybe my entire game!

In desperation, I flung open one last closet and found my “rearranged” hockey equipment. I scribbled a quick note for the sisters’ return. I was not amused, but thought better of comparing their household adjustments to “rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic.” Instead, to express my frustration, I grabbed some scrap paper and wrote: “Fed and walked the dog. Nearly late for hockey ’cause you hid my gear…” Then, I flung the note on their neatly rearranged front room floor.

However, like the rest of the changes, I got over it.