The end of a personal era

I had an unusual childhood in that I never moved. No, not even once. Most of my friends moved at least a couple of times before they reached adulthood and moved out on their own. I moved out in my early 20’s to take a job in Banff and then I moved back home when I decided to return to university.

My parents were very generous in that way. Mum told me she thought she could feed three of us about as cheaply as she could feed the two of them, so lived there without paying room and board while I went back to get my degree in education. I had enough saved to pay for my tuition and books, to run my car and have some spending money. When I finished university and got a teaching job, my dad was sick and I stayed home. This time I split the costs of the household with Mum and helped her pay for some improvements to the house. When Dad died, I continued to live with Mum. We got along well and I was happy to look after the cats when she wanted to travel.

When Richard and I married and I moved into his house, I continued to feed the cats and look after Mum’s house when she travelled. In addition to talking to her on the phone almost every day, I visited her often, usually on Friday afternoons after work. I’d call her and say, “Put the kettle on. I’m coming over.” We would chat and drink a pot of tea before I left to have supper with Richard. Sometimes, I’d call him and the three of us would go to Mother’s Pizza for supper. It was a comfortable routine and I was in her house at least once a week unless I was away on holidays.

She stayed in the house for 19 years until she decided that it was time for her to move to a place where she would no longer be responsible for the upkeep of a house and yard. Over the years we had found good people to take care of the yard and had made modifications to the house to make it easier for her to live in it as she aged. Having always said that we could take her out of the house feet first, she decided on her own that the scenario had changed.

I remember driving her back to the house from the visit to the assisted living facility where she had just signed the papers. As we drove along the familiar Sarcee Trail she said, “Well, I hope I’ve made the right decision. If I haven’t I have no one but myself to blame.” I don’t think she was sorry, at least she never said so to me.

Of course that decision to move was followed by the cleaning out of the house. Richard was a huge help. He was available during the day at that point and if Mum fussed about something, he picked up the phone and dealt with the issue. He helped her sort through belongings to decide what she would keep and what would go. She was pretty unsentimental. She spent twenty-five years clearing up after Dad who was a bit of a packrat. I don’t think he crossed the line to hoarder but he certainly saved things because they might be useful later. Mum was determined not to leave that kind of chaos for me to clean up.

Mum hired a realtor and the day the sign went up, the guy from next door came to the house with an offer to purchase. Mum pointed him to the realtor and, in a matter of hours, the house was sold. I remember the realtor telling me he had chatted with the buyer, telling him he hoped the house was not going to be knocked down; it had good bones, and years more life in it. Over the next few months, we hired a company to move and disperse the rest of the stuff Mum left in the house. I remember walking through the house after the last load went out, leaving the keys, and writing a note to the new owner telling him how good the house had been to us and expressing the hope that it would be good to him as well.

After that, we watched as the house got another renovation to accommodate 4 suites. Whenever I drove by I saw the house numbers that I had painted on a piece of acrylic beside one of the doors. I also kept track of the spruce tree I planted when I was in grade 3. It was taller than the rest of the ones that still survived in the neighbourhood. Even when I didn’t drive down the actual street the house was on, I knew where to look for the tree as I passed the intersection.

A few years ago there was a ‘For Sale’ sign on Mum’s house and the one next door. We looked up the price and it was over one million dollars for both properties. The sign came down. The houses remained. Earlier this spring I saw a sign on the house next door. I didn’t actually see whether it sold or not but I never saw a sign on Mum’s house.

Because of the reno, we have been out of town a few times while the painter has been working. After our last trip, I drove by the familiar intersection on my way home and, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a construction fence. Immediately, I drove round the block and parked. There was nothing left. Both houses were gone. All the concrete was gone. My tree was gone. I had always hoped that I would have enough warning before the house was demolished so I could, somehow, salvage some of that spruce tree. The scenario had changed.

I always knew that would eventually be the fate of the house. There are now only two of the original bungalows in that block on that side of the street. I knew that the guy who bought it tried to purchase all the land from the house next door to the corner of the block on the other side of Mum’s house. Nobody wants to purchase that much land to keep 1950’s bungalows on it. Although Mum sold, owners on the other side of her didn’t, so the new owner of Mum’s house ended up with only the two properties side by side.

Once I get over being sad about the demolition, it will be interesting to see what kind of a structure replaces it. I’m betting that land will house eight units or more. Densification is the name of the game in these old, inner city, neighbourhoods. I was fortunate to grow up in a single-family dwelling with a big yard, on a relatively quiet street. I am fortunate now to live in a single-family dwelling with a smaller yard and a workshop. Now that Mum’s house, for it will always be ‘Mum’s house,’ is gone I will not have to watch it become scruffy or decay. It is frozen in time, frozen in my memory for as long as that memory continues to work. Time moves on.