In Another Castle
Last July, my parents packed up their split level house just off the southern tip of the island of Montreal and moved to a townhouse some 50 kilometres away in the West End. To many, a local move is not a big deal, but for my parents - and let’s face it, for ME - it was HUGE.
Our family moved into the south shore house on Bernard Street on April 1st, 1977. There were five of us - my parents, who were in their late 30s at the time, my 10 year old sister, my 7 year old self, and our first family dog, Sniffy. Compared to our previous dwelling, this place was a veritable mansion - 4 levels including the basement, 3 bedrooms and TWO bathrooms! The previous owners had left the place a complete mess, so we spent that first day cleaning the house from top to bottom. Looking back, I don’t know much help my sister and I actually were, seeing as we were small, easily distracted children, but I do remember feeling a sense of accomplishment at the end of our first day there, seeing the piles of garbage and dust piled away in various corners, just waiting to be dragged out to the curb.
My parents’ decision to downsize wasn’t just about moving to a smaller house, though. It was about moving our lives. The family lived on Bernard for over thirty six years - in addition to saying goodbye to Sniffy in that house, over the years it was where we said hello and goodbye to Sheba, Sasha, Sydney, and Jessie. Our father taught both my sister and me how to hit a ball in that backyard. That basement was where I touched my first penis and learned the power I had over men with that touch. It was where both my sister and I dressed for our weddings, and where a crowd of our neighbours gathered around to watch us step out to the limousine.
Both my sister and I moved out somewhere in our mid twenties, but the house on Bernard remained “home”. The idea of spending Christmas or Thanksgiving anywhere else was absurd, and the first time I had to go out of town to have Christmas with my in laws, I was absolutely inconsolable. Whether it had been three days or three weeks since my last visit, I could make my way through that house blindfolded. I knew where all the fancy plates were kept, and I could make my way from the basement to the top floor like a ninja because I knew exactly how to avoid making the stairs creak.
My parents’ decision to move came about in stages. My sister moved to another province, and I moved to the west part of town. If my parents needed me for something, be it big or small, it was a complicated production to coordinate my trip to their house. Then my father started radiation treatments downtown. He and my mom were required to drive, through rush hour traffic at least one way, for over an hour each way for his 15 minute appointments - in the dead of winter, for THIRTY FIVE sessions. It was exhausting. The kicker, though, was the sheer size of the house. When we were kids and living at home, the 4 floors didn’t seem like enough space to contain us, our pets, and our friends. But with the nest empty of all children - both two legged and four - too much of the house wasn’t being used regularly, and my mother was finding it extremely difficult to maintain. So the search began.
The logical place for my parents to start looking was in my neighbourhood. They weren’t looking to uproot completely and leave the province, so they may as well look for a place within fifteen minutes of their remaining child. I started sending them links to places that looked nice. I was looking forward to the idea of being able to pop in to see my parents for an hour if I wanted to, rather than making it a day long trip. They originally wanted to rent, but nothing suited them, so they decided to buy. A townhouse condo looked to be just the thing - condo fees to pay for lawn care and snow removal, but big enough that they weren’t right on top of their neighbours.
Eventually they narrowed their choices down to two - a brand, spanking new development about 10 minutes away from where I live by car, and a new-ish development, built in 2004, 5 minutes away from where I am on foot. In the end, they went with the place closer to me. I like to think they did so because they wanted to be as close to me as possible, but in reality, it came down to the price.
Once the decision was made, the purging began. Although their soon to be new home was fairly large, it was no 4 storey split level. They had to go through everything that had been collected over the last 36 years and decide what to keep and what to throw away or donate.
When the big day came, I helped them out. I took a few days off of work and helped to move boxes and unpack. We tried to place things the way they had been in the old place, but couldn’t - there was just too much stuff. Over the next few weeks, I went over whenever I had some spare time to help them fix the place up. It was strange - I no longer knew where the creaky step was, and once night fell, I couldn’t find ANYTHING unless I turned on the light. Eventually everything was done.
We’re coming up to 9 months of their being in their new house, and we’ve already celebrated a Christmas, Thanksgiving, and a couple of birthdays there. Is it the same as the house on Bernard? Of course not. But I’ve learned one very important fact, as clichéd as it sounds - home really is where the heart is. And although the memories we’ve begun making are very different, and it is highly unlikely that we’ll be making another 36 years of memories, it’s still the place where we all gather and feel loved. It’s still home.
Our family moved into the south shore house on Bernard Street on April 1st, 1977. There were five of us - my parents, who were in their late 30s at the time, my 10 year old sister, my 7 year old self, and our first family dog, Sniffy. Compared to our previous dwelling, this place was a veritable mansion - 4 levels including the basement, 3 bedrooms and TWO bathrooms! The previous owners had left the place a complete mess, so we spent that first day cleaning the house from top to bottom. Looking back, I don’t know much help my sister and I actually were, seeing as we were small, easily distracted children, but I do remember feeling a sense of accomplishment at the end of our first day there, seeing the piles of garbage and dust piled away in various corners, just waiting to be dragged out to the curb.
My parents’ decision to downsize wasn’t just about moving to a smaller house, though. It was about moving our lives. The family lived on Bernard for over thirty six years - in addition to saying goodbye to Sniffy in that house, over the years it was where we said hello and goodbye to Sheba, Sasha, Sydney, and Jessie. Our father taught both my sister and me how to hit a ball in that backyard. That basement was where I touched my first penis and learned the power I had over men with that touch. It was where both my sister and I dressed for our weddings, and where a crowd of our neighbours gathered around to watch us step out to the limousine.
Both my sister and I moved out somewhere in our mid twenties, but the house on Bernard remained “home”. The idea of spending Christmas or Thanksgiving anywhere else was absurd, and the first time I had to go out of town to have Christmas with my in laws, I was absolutely inconsolable. Whether it had been three days or three weeks since my last visit, I could make my way through that house blindfolded. I knew where all the fancy plates were kept, and I could make my way from the basement to the top floor like a ninja because I knew exactly how to avoid making the stairs creak.
My parents’ decision to move came about in stages. My sister moved to another province, and I moved to the west part of town. If my parents needed me for something, be it big or small, it was a complicated production to coordinate my trip to their house. Then my father started radiation treatments downtown. He and my mom were required to drive, through rush hour traffic at least one way, for over an hour each way for his 15 minute appointments - in the dead of winter, for THIRTY FIVE sessions. It was exhausting. The kicker, though, was the sheer size of the house. When we were kids and living at home, the 4 floors didn’t seem like enough space to contain us, our pets, and our friends. But with the nest empty of all children - both two legged and four - too much of the house wasn’t being used regularly, and my mother was finding it extremely difficult to maintain. So the search began.
The logical place for my parents to start looking was in my neighbourhood. They weren’t looking to uproot completely and leave the province, so they may as well look for a place within fifteen minutes of their remaining child. I started sending them links to places that looked nice. I was looking forward to the idea of being able to pop in to see my parents for an hour if I wanted to, rather than making it a day long trip. They originally wanted to rent, but nothing suited them, so they decided to buy. A townhouse condo looked to be just the thing - condo fees to pay for lawn care and snow removal, but big enough that they weren’t right on top of their neighbours.
Eventually they narrowed their choices down to two - a brand, spanking new development about 10 minutes away from where I live by car, and a new-ish development, built in 2004, 5 minutes away from where I am on foot. In the end, they went with the place closer to me. I like to think they did so because they wanted to be as close to me as possible, but in reality, it came down to the price.
Once the decision was made, the purging began. Although their soon to be new home was fairly large, it was no 4 storey split level. They had to go through everything that had been collected over the last 36 years and decide what to keep and what to throw away or donate.
When the big day came, I helped them out. I took a few days off of work and helped to move boxes and unpack. We tried to place things the way they had been in the old place, but couldn’t - there was just too much stuff. Over the next few weeks, I went over whenever I had some spare time to help them fix the place up. It was strange - I no longer knew where the creaky step was, and once night fell, I couldn’t find ANYTHING unless I turned on the light. Eventually everything was done.
We’re coming up to 9 months of their being in their new house, and we’ve already celebrated a Christmas, Thanksgiving, and a couple of birthdays there. Is it the same as the house on Bernard? Of course not. But I’ve learned one very important fact, as clichéd as it sounds - home really is where the heart is. And although the memories we’ve begun making are very different, and it is highly unlikely that we’ll be making another 36 years of memories, it’s still the place where we all gather and feel loved. It’s still home.