The Rest is Still Unwritten 

Staring at the blank page before me…

The Grand Finale  (Final Installment of a 3-Part Series)

One of the things I really appreciate about bureaucracy in any country is really… nothing.

When the new US administration came into power in 2016, immigration was high on the list of changes. The first change was the cost of filing for immigration and naturalization services. The price for a field of dreams in the USA doubled effective January 2017, and the $1,500 price tag was expensive, perhaps a deterrent for some, but I remained unfazed. I would just drink less wine, I surmised, and exchanged my wine budget for my immigration budget. Coupled with the Canadian dollar exchange rate, it seemed about a million dollars. But doable.

I gathered the 408 necessary documents from Judy and Craig, prepared in triplicate, and flew to Florida and mailed off my dreams in a yellow envelope with a stamp bought by Craig. It was somewhat ceremonial for him I think. Full circle? I started checking the status at the six-month mark figuring I would know something.

Ah, no. Over the next three years, I had USCIS on speed dial. No agent could really say for sure what was happening. No stamped document saying WELCOME TO THE US WE HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR YOU ever came. I recognize Homeland Security has bigger fish to fry than providing safe passage across the Alberta/Montana border for one stubborn Canadian…my house went up for sale and down. Every New Year’s Eve (there were three…) I would think “This is the year!” and “The best is yet to come!”

In late 2019, I decided what needed to happen was a trip to the US Consulate in Calgary. Impatience got the best of me, and I felt two-plus years waiting seemed excessive. Trust the Canadians to sort out whatever issue there was. Behind the thick glass, a bespectacled no-nonsense gentleman gruffly stated I just needed a passport. I need to be able to live legally in the US I say. So you just need a passport. Sure, let’s go with that. File form #4053OMGHELPME55589. Case closed.

For an additional $175 and the same documentation from Craig and Judy, 11 weeks later that blue passport with gold lettering arrived the last week of February 2020, two weeks before the world shut down. If it is meant for you, it will come. 

Strangely enough, I still haven’t heard back from Homeland Security with all my documents they required, plus my $1,500 dollars. I mean, I am HERE now. I pay taxes. I have a business. A SSN#. An address. Nope. No swearing of the Oath for you, Miss Canada. I really did want to go to some government agency and look at the flag and recite my memorized oath. Or ask for a refund of the $1,500, because as a small business owner, I could really use that money.

The rest they say is history. I bought the house in 2020 sight unseen, and moved down for good in 2021. I left all I knew back home — my career, my steady paycheck, my high heel shoes, lipstickn and gel nails in exchange for toilet cleaning and creating breakfast for guests who would reserve at The Virginia May. 

Reinvention exists, I am living proof. Many of my friends back home thought I was insane, and I know they tsked behind their cupped hands, but if anyone could make this happen it would be me. I know they wished the best for me, but sheesh, leave your career? What started as a $100,000 reno budget turned into a final price tag of about $253,000 worth of house renovations and two cottages. I was so naive, but with each obstacle I faced I dug in, I forged ahead. Failure was never an option.

I opened for guests once I had the toilet paper rolls on the hooks in May of 2022, and quickly learned no guests would mean no income. I solely depend on the kindness of strangers who happen to find me on Google, heard from friends, saw the 5-star ratings and want to have a staycation on a street with deer and oak trees. Each month the mortgage is paid by Dutch baby pancakes, sourdough bread, and egg dishes of all varieties. 

I live and breathe “support small business.” I have ventured into small events, private dinners, and charcuterie boards. This fall, I will start selling sourdough and cinnamon buns to the general population. I am learning marketing. I have a staff of one — me. I putz around the property; I have learned to maintain things that break; I have a rolodex of contractors I can call when things go awry. Small business is not for the faint of heart. There is a certain level of constant worry about where guests will come from, and will I pay the bills this month. Would I change anything? Not for one second.

I owe this life to two teenagers who met in Chicago almost 58 years ago. They were my biggest cheerleaders of this Texas life, and sadly, neither one got the chance to make the trip. Craig got sick in 2021 and passed away in November. At his funeral, the guards folded the American flag for me, his only daughter, and I gave the eulogy for a man I had only known for six plus years. I still have our entire text exchange between the two of us that I just can’t seem to delete. 

Judy faithfully called each month, and when I started writing for the magazine, I sent her a copy of North287 Living so she could see it in print. Early February this year she had commented how she liked writing poetry in high school and clearly my writing talent was something she passed on to me. Unfortunately, she had also been sick the last few years and passed away in April of this year. And so these past three issues I dedicate to those two American kids, and I will carefully bundle three separate packages of magazines — the story of Craig and Judy, to Jennifer and Jason, Judy’s two kids, and Sonia, Craig’s wife, as a thank you.

Each month the most fascinating question guests ask is how did you get from Canada to here… Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale, a tale of a fateful trip… a three-hour tour…..