Yesterday, John and I took ‘her highness’ along as we cast our votes in the federal election. Our polling station was located in a retirement residence across the street and a bit north from our home – a modern facility that includes a main building with small, assisted living apartment units and a number of surrounding semi-detached bungalow dwellings. It’s well-kept, clean and has an ideal location right on the shore of our lake.

When we moved here in 2001, we had an excellent, unobstructed lake view from our front porch. I had a suspicion that it would be short-lived and I was right. About a year and a half ago, the residence added additional bungalow units, spoiling our view.

I have to say that I can’t really feel mad about it. I can still see the lake from my 2nd floor office window (above is a photo of the view; I’m watching a snowmobiler approach an ice-fishing hut as I type), and we can walk the few hundred yards to the lake’s edge if we’re dying for a postcard. I think the elderly in our town deserve to have beauty around them. Still, I miss relaxing on the porch and having the old view.

The polling station was on the 2nd floor of the main building, and we used the stairs so the building’s elevator would be free for use by the residents and support workers. It was just after dinner, so there were many residents wanting to return to their rooms and PSWs making rounds with medications and the like.
On our way, we had to wander down a hall of bed sitting rooms, many with their doors ajar, so it was hard not to notice when we passed a beautiful antique table or lamp. Actually, it was a bit sad to see the few personal furnishings each resident had retained from their lives, but interesting in that those few paces revealed to us so many possessions that had been deemed special enough to accompany their owners to what would most likely be their last home.

My daughter took her role of depositing our votes in the ballot box very seriously, insisting on dressing up for the occasion, so we hung around for a bit while some of the elections staff complimented her on the very smart outfit she was wearing (a brown tweed dropped waist dress, matching blazer and fedora – she looked every bit the underage Lois Lane of the ‘30s). While this was going on, John got into a conversation with a Party representative whose husband knew us (you know it’s a small town and you must stick out when people you’ve never met before know exactly who you are).
Waiting for everyone to finish their conversations, I noticed an elderly lady being steered back towards her room, with one of the staff apologizing that she’d wandered out to vote for about the thirtieth time that day. I immediately recognized her as Mrs. D., who’d lived across the street from us until fairly recently, and whose house (a ranch-style) was just placed up for sale last week. I walked over and said hello to her, and although she was quite confused, I could tell that she was aware we’d met before.

The last time I remember running into Mrs. D. was this past spring. She loved to wander the neighborhood, and I’d found her quite a few times looking a bit mixed up. I always walked her home, and she always asked me who I was several times. That last time, I remember taking her into our yard as we passed my place and showing her the addition we’d just started on the house before taking her home. I hadn’t thought about not seeing her around lately until the sign went up across the street. She was a good neighbour and friend of my home’s previous owner.
We chatted for a few minutes about nothing and the weather, and every so often she’d again ask me who I was and where I lived. It was sad to see that her memory had become so short. But when I mentioned that I’d noticed her home was now up for sale, she instantly became lucid and said that she knew it had just been listed, and hoped that her former next door neighbour would get along well with the people who eventually purchased it. I asked her how she was enjoying being at the residence, and she looked at the staff member who was still hovering and assured me that she was well taken care of and that it was a lovely place with nice people around to help her and lots of companionship.

And then, when the support worker suggested that it was time to go back to her room, she leaned into my ear almost conspiratorially and said “I wish I still lived there, you know.”

I’m always intrigued by what motivates people to choose the homes that they do – especially when it’s an older, resale house that needs a lot of work.
Throw aside the practical issues of affordability, location and space and you generally end up with an interesting relationship where the house is more than just a structure … it becomes human-like. Some aspect about the house touched deep enough to compel its new owner to action and to long-term commitment – despite its obvious quirks and faults, despite the fact that like us, it’s imperfect.
Even more curious are the many ways that relationship can play out over time. We’ll tolerate substandard plumbing, electricity and heating – and surrender our own level of comfort – in the same, good-natured way we might tolerate a child’s naiveté. We’ll forsake the companionship of our friends and family – often our own spouses – because we’re swept up in the perfect affair. The house feeds our ego because it clearly needs us, and we feel great about ourselves because we’re constantly rewarded for our efforts to beautify and adorn our ‘mistresses’. We feel personal pride when we (and others) look around our homes much like a parent might feel pride in their child’s accomplishments. They reflect us, each small detail an extension of our personality and preference, and a nod to our abilities.
Other generations may lay claim to having built these walls, but we are its guardians in a time when everything’s disposable, when it’s perhaps most vulnerable.
Strange is our belief that if we nurse our old house back from years of neglect and give it back its beauty, it will one day care for us – our loving years of improvements and maintenance having made it strong enough to ensure us shelter and familiarity when we are old and tired.

We give our house renewal, in the hopes that it will outlive us.

Above the dull roar of assorted power tools, hammering, homeowners muttering under their breath and the shop-vac, there arises something else…

...it’s The Renos!

There’s nothing quite as ear-splitting as the shrieks that can emit from a couple of four-year old girls.
(PS: that’s my daughter channeling Angus Young)

I’ve been meaning to keep a weblog of our never-ending renovations, restorations and remuddles for quite some time now. Today, I’m determined to make good on at least one of my New Year’s resolutions.
I have a list of things I told myself I needed before I started this in earnest (most notably, that ubiquitous digital camera – I’m sure we’re the last family in the civilized world who doesn’t own one!), but perhaps this will be my incentive to finally head into the city for something that doesn’t involve a trip to the Salvage Shop or the ReStore.
There will no doubt be tales from both of those places to relate to fellow house bloggers in posts to come.

Welcome to my little piece of real estate on the web – like the other one, it’s a work in progress.