Warning: The following post contains images that will horrify you. Readers are likely to experience nausea, vomiting, uncontrollable weeping and outrage at what they are about to see. Salvaged Beauty takes no responsibility for your weak stomach or anger-management issues, and advises that you proceed with discretion…

Sick is the only way to describe how I feel now whenever I head into Toronto via Kingston Rd. in Scarborough. I know this stretch of road pretty well, having traveled along it countless times when I was much younger, on my way to and from dancing classes.

The red bungalow you see in this photo spoke to me even then—long before I knew or cared about architectural styles and craftsman design. It was just my favourite house, and someday when I was bigger I was going to live in a house just like it.
That was back in the ‘70s, when this home was on the outer perimeter of the suburb of Scarborough. At that time, its neighbouring properties were other homes, all with similarly large lots of almost an acre. But this one was special—its style was quite different from all the others. I thought it looked like a giant gingerbread house, a chalet in Switzerland, or somewhere Goldilocks might have lived if fairy tales were real. The gardens were lush, and in those days there was a forest of mature pines behind this stretch of suburbia.

In 2001, my husband and I decided to search for a new home, and were already fans of the arts and crafts movement. John, who commutes to the city daily, kept telling me about this gorgeous bungalow that was for sale, and borrowed my camera one day to take photos—even though we had no intention of moving closer to Toronto. I laughed when I saw the pictures, since I knew this home well. Priced at over a million dollars, there was no way we could even entertain thoughts of owning it—but we wondered who would buy it, since that stretch of road was now a wasteland of deteriorating strip malls, gas stations and used car lots, and every other single-family dwelling that once stood nearby was razed long ago.

The charming red house was eventually purchased by a developer and rented out to a tenant, and thus began its quick descent into the annals of bungalow perversion.

Ironically, its first and last incarnation post-sale was as a religious temple…a religion whose followers were definitely guilty of having God-awful taste in decorating. What they did to the exterior of this house is deeply…sinful.
Believe it or not, now that the house is abandoned once again, it actually looks much better than it did a year ago – the tacky plastic devotional statues, religious posters and garishly-coloured signage which cluttered the property are gone—as is a great deal of garbage.

I took these photos on Tuesday as we drove by on our way to Niagara Falls (via Toronto). Honestly, I felt like I shouldn’t even be photographing this building in its present state. It seemed pitiful and almost shameful, and I wonder if that’s what taking a photo of a victim of abuse or tragedy must be like for the photographer. You can document the injustice, but in doing so, how can you not help but feel like you’ve just violated them further?

I suppose the end is truly near for my beloved red bungalow. She was unique – a house that was once one of the most admired and well-tended in the neighbourhood. The home of my dreams.
Yet, even in her ravaged state she stands defiant—those strong, graceful lines softening her vulgar makeup…she’s still beautiful in her last hours.

technorati tags: houseblog, remuddling, craftsman+bungalow, home+renovation+nightmares

With Mother’s Day just around the corner, I thought I’d share some of my most treasured gifts with you.

My mother was a wonderful gardener, and especially adored tulips. In 1997, the year I was married, she began giving me an assortment of her favourite tulip bulbs to plant in my garden each fall.

When spring comes, their magnificence astounds me and I want to drown in them, for their beauty is so exquisite and fleeting…as ephemeral as the gift from my mother was, for I only received this annual present three times.

Even though mom passed away in the fall of 2000, she manages to find a way to visit me every Mother’s Day.

With the exception of the first photo (taken on Monday), all of these pictures were taken in my garden around dinnertime on Wednesday.

The first tulips mom ever gave me were ‘Blushing Beauty’—a spectacular pale yellow tulip with blush pink veining on 30” stems. Like most of my bulbs, these are in their third garden—having moved with me twice now—and it’s the first time since we’ve lived in this house that the rabbits didn’t get them (thank you, neighbours who now have dogs).

Seeing them in bloom is particularly satisfying; at my wedding I carried a simple bouquet of just these tulips, with sheer green organza ribbon wrapped around their incredibly long stems.

I love that moment just before a tulip unfurls. I think it’s when the flower is at its most beautiful, and parrot tulips (like the ones above) really have a way of capturing it best, don’t you think? They have this fantastic, almost surreal look about them.

Happy Mother’s Day, everyone.
And thanks, mom, for the most awesome gift ever.

technorati tags: houseblog, DIY, gardening, home+renovation

My daughter’s primary school held a memorial today for a twelve year-old grade seven student whose young life was taken far too soon in a tragic house fire this past February.

To honour Kevin, students planted a mighty oak tree, which they dedicated to his memory. The quiet, simple celebration was marked by poetry readings from Kevin’s classmates and teacher, and a musical tribute by the school choir.

The choir sang Leonard Cohen’s ‘Hallelujah’, which I found an unexpected, yet perfect choice of material…and I discovered how difficult it is to focus a camera while you are crying.

_{Live thy Life,
Young and old,
Like yon oak,
Bright in spring,
Living gold;}

Summer-rich
Then; and then
Autumn-changed,
Soberer hued
Gold again.

All his leaves
Fall’n at length,
Look, he stands,
Trunk and bough,
Naked strength.

“The Oak”, by Alfred Lord Tennyson

An annual event in our town on Easter Sunday is the great Egg Hunt Race, and the kids really look forward to it because everyone’s a winner.

Sponsored by a local chocolatier, this is the 18th year for the event. The downtown’s main street is closed to traffic, and the children are divided into age groups and must race down the street to where coloured, egg-shaped rocks have been placed.

Once the children find a rock with their age written on it, they trade it in for a generous bag of candy—which includes some very nice hand-made chocolates. Certain bags contain a prize that entitles the child to a large chocolate Easter Bunny as well, and our daughter received one of the special bags this year—like she needed any help in the hyperactivity department! You may be asking yourself why my kid isn’t wearing a coat, since it’s only about 12 degrees Celsius…apparently, not only is it not pink, but it slows her down.

We feel really fortunate to live in a community that cares so much for its future. I hope everyone had as wonderful an Easter weekend as we did.

Last friday, during my daughter’s ‘March Break’ from kindergarten, I sent her on a day trip to Casa Loma in Toronto.

_{Casa Loma}

Organized by the local daycare, the bus trip was hard to resist, costing parents the grand sum of one dollar. To tell you the truth, I was a bit jealous—it’s been decades since I visited this grand castle estate. I decided to buy Deirdre a disposable camera for the occasion, and to be honest, I figured that she’d use up the photos on her friends…and probably long before the bus even arrived in the city. I was so wrong.

When I picked up the film today, I was impressed at some of the things she’d found interesting enough to snap a picture of, and thought I’d share a few of those pics with you:

Deirdre told me that she would like to have a bedroom like this someday. I believe this is Sir Henry Pellatt’s suite, as Lady Pellatt’s room is very dainty and Wedgewood blue. I’d prefer this style myself. She also spied the rather shapely silver server in a display of militaria. For a five year-old, you have to admit the kid has pretty good taste…I think she’s been stealing peeks at the ‘oak pornography’ magazines her parents have hidden under the bed (Old House Interiors, American Bungalow, etc.).

Another thing she zeroed in on was the garden landscape architecture (too bad the flowers aren’t in bloom; the gardens there are really spectacular), and thinks we should do something like this in our backyard (currently a mess from constructing the addition…we’ve been talking about how we’re going to landscape around the house). Uhhh…sure.

Sometimes, your child surprises you in wonderful ways—I had no idea that she was really paying attention to these kinds of things.

I’ve noticed some recent discussion among the housebloggers pertaining to children—and more specifically, how those of us who have them manage to get any home renovation work done.
Some of you are new parents and understandably nervous and worried about how your activities will impact your young child; and others are maybe considering… well, let’s just say it must be Spring.

I’m certainly no expert on the subject of parenting. But I can tell you that if there’s one thing any kid loves, it’s a disaster area. I mean, c’mon—just go into any child’s room and you’ll see firsthand I speak the truth. Kids thrive on destruction, even at an early age. What’s the best thing about blocks? Why, the fact you can knock them down, of course!
Seeing the processes involved with change is great early education—maybe that’s why Bob the Builder is so popular with youngsters—so why not be the star in your child’s development?
This is obviously not giving you carte blanche to go on stripping lead paint or doing asbestos abatement with a child in the house, but I think new parents can be slightly paranoid at first about continuing with home improvement projects. Keep the projects within reason, your tools and harmful substances locked up and areas of potential danger off limits to young children for sure—but remember, that same innocent little angel is going to be eating bugs, dirt and far more unpleasant things in less than 10 months time.

Our daughter Deirdre was introduced to gonzo-style home renovating from a very early age. In this photo, taken when she was a year old, you can see that she’s being properly shielded from the harmful effects of viewing abhorrently bad kitchen wallpaper by wearing safety glasses.

Watching daddy saw pieces of wood or mommy paint a colour on the wall is far more interesting than any children’s show going; you might also be surprised to learn that the sound of certain power tools (at a reasonable decibel level) can be more effective in lulling a child to sleep than Baby Mozart. And a house under renovation, when viewed through the eyes of a child, is as filled with wonder as any amusement park.

I guess what I’m saying is don’t be afraid to take off the kid gloves and put on your work gloves.

technorati tags: home+improvement, houseblog, DIY, renovation,

History and Shakespearean prose tells us that a soothsayer cautioned Julius Ceasar to “Beware the Ides of March”. Of course, we all know that old Jules thought it was hogwash, and ended up getting knifed in the back after meeting up with some buddies at the Senate that day; but in these modern times, the usage of the word ‘Ides’ has been lost along with a lot of other jargon from the Roman calendar.

But I’m pretty sure that ‘Ides’ roughly translates to ‘Break’ – as in ‘March Break’, a time when all avenues to home improvement salvation and retaining your own sanity are lost.
A time when there are no plumbers, no electricians and no contractors…they are all taking luxurious, expensive vacations…that you paid for.
A time when you will still be without a washer and dryer, a time when you will not be able to work on anything worthy of this rare stretch of time, because the person who you need to finish their job before you can proceed is…on vacation.

It’s a time when you will have no hope, a time when all hell is bound to break loose…if it ever thaws, that is, because hell generally freezes over during March Break in Canada. It’s a given.

It’s a time when your five year-old will demand every scrap of your attention and waking hours, because every single one of her friends and their families are taking expensive vacations…somewhere warm and exotic.
It’s a time when you long for the week to be over and it’s only Wednesday, because you know that the closest you’ll get to actually being warm will be when you open the door of the industrial-sized dryer at the Laundromat…the most exotic location you’ll visit this week.

It’s that seven days of the year when you become acutely aware of your failures – you’re not able to provide a trip to Disneyland for your child to yak about in class next week, because your house has eaten up any possibility of a family vacation for the next several years. Your home is a complete disaster area, and you can’t even enjoy the simple (and free) pleasure of puttering in your own garden this week, because only idiots would step outside in this weather. If you dare plan any ‘educational outing’ with your child that involves visiting a museum, science centre, planetarium, art gallery or zoo, you will stand in line for an eternity with 10 million impatient, screaming children. And their parents, who are visibly losing it. As are you.

March Break. In my experience, its only existence is to suck the last remaining bit of life from your work-weary body, and your last shred of logical reason. It’s quite possibly the most foreboding and dangerous time of the year. So beware the ‘Ides’ of March.

Especially if you come anywhere near me on Monday and look restored, rested and tanned.

This past Saturday was a diversion from our normal weekend fare of hanging out in paint-stained clothing and getting really dirty working about the house. We actually cleaned ourselves up a bit and headed out to attend my cousin’s wedding.

My husband will tell you that any social event that involves wearing a suit is worthy of loathing, and the feeling was probably mutual among the men seated at our reception table. Like John, both of my brothers, as well as my brother-in-law, do not possess the easy finesse that so many men have when wearing a suit. Instead, their awkwardness brings to mind a guy about to have his first prom photo snapped in the living room of his date’s home…by her father.

But what my immediate family may lack in the ‘polished image’ category, we more than make up for in other ways. Our relatives never fail to extend us wedding invites, because we are practically famous for our refined skills in a particular wedding tradition.

At most reception dinners, guests gnaw on their rubber chicken and make polite conversation in between the monotonous speeches, pausing every once in awhile to tap on their glasses with the flatware—a universal signal that the bride and groom must kiss.
In recent years however, the level of difficulty for this tradition has been elevated, with guest tables now having to sing a song containing the word ‘Love’ before the happy couple will lock lips.

Previously anonymous guests suddenly have an early opportunity to publicly humiliate themselves in front of family and friends, make a lasting impression on the generally uncharted ‘other’ side of the room, and give everyone lots to snark about over the hours-long dinner.

As a party game, this new trend is kind of like American Idol meets Fear Factor meets Jeopardy. Coming up with a song your table can sing is actually one of the hardest elements, and then of course, there’s getting the courage up to perform it for a room of 200 or so.
Eventually though, the battle’s on – table #6 warbles “Love Me Tender”; old aunt Mabel’s table counters with “Love is a Many Splendored Thing”; a table of young women (friends of the bride, perhaps?) launch into the abysmal “Power of Love”.
At this point, everyone at my table grabs another stiff drink because, let’s face it, most people just can’t sing well, and attempts at this ‘new tradition’ range from being ridiculously funny to being downright painful to watch. After listening to the guys at table #18 drunkenly croon the theme from The Love Boat and a group of new empty-nesters attempt Barney’s “I Love You, You Love Me”, we are sufficiently liquored up and ready to play.
Our relatives had actually been watching our table for a while now, their pleading eyes silently screaming “Save Us, Please!”, because they know that in this arena, the table where my siblings and I sit will emerge as champions of this vocal assault.

It’s not just that each child in my family was blessed with a certain degree of natural musical talent (at best, there’s my brother Michael, who could be a decent lead singer for just about any rock band out there; at worst, my sister remains on-key and doesn’t attempt any vocal gymnastics); strangely, each of our significant others were as well. We all sing passably, and the majority of us can also play an instrument.

And while none of us pursued music as a vocation, my family raised the blood sport of ‘The Love Song Wedding Game’ to a high art form many years ago at my very own wedding, when my brother Michael and cousin Steve led their table in the most awe-inspiring a capella rendition of Led Zeppelin’s “Whole ‘Lotta Love” the world had ever heard.

Not only was the singing dead-on, but there was even hand percussion and mouthed lead guitar effects incorporated into the performance. I tell you, jaws literally dropped (and mine was one of them). It was, in a word, amazing.

Since then, my siblings and I have been expected to re-enact this experience at every wedding we attend, and we’ve discovered that it’s a great icebreaker when bringing two unfamiliar families together for the first time. Over the years, our repertoire has grown to accommodate events where we don’t really know many people. This weekend, for instance, because we’d never met the bride or any of ‘that side’ of the room, we started off with Stevie Wonder’s tasteful “I Just Called to Say I Love You”. As always, my brother sang the lead like an angel, and we had some nice layered harmonies happening. Meatloaf’s “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” followed some time after that, getting more tables involved in the fun and singing along, and we wrapped it up during dessert and coffee with our now-legendary lead balloon of a wedding ‘Love’ song.

While we may detest dressing for these occasions, ‘maa-wage is a bwessed awangement’, and failing to have and contribute to a good time at a family member’s nuptials would be…inconceivable.

Saturday is ‘Movie Night’ in the Salvaged Beauty household, and tonight’s feature film was definitely a cut above our normal fare, which of late has generally involved Scooby-Doo.
We don’t have a theatre around here, so we wait ‘til things are out on video. I actually prefer the comforts of home to a cineplex anyway. I’ve just carried a tuckered out Deirdre up to bed, after a thoroughly enjoyable evening huddled on the couch watching Zathura.

It’s a great movie to watch with youngsters – especially if you like old houses in the Greene and Greene style. Our daughter actually got worked up into a bit of a laughing frenzy listening to her parents pleading, “no…not the fireplace!” and “awwww…not the light!”
I won’t spoil the movie by saying much more, but even if you’ve seen it in the theatre, it’s probably worth renting the video to watch the extra features on how they used miniatures in the filming.

The flag at my daughter’s school flew at half mast today. A third victim of Saturday morning’s horrible house fire was a 12 year-old boy from her school, whose parents also perished.

When something happens in a small town, I think you have maybe a 50/50 chance of it affecting you in some personal way, however indirectly.
It’s been almost a decade since I moved from a big city, where bad things generally happened to someone else and tomorrow’s tragedy would surely involve other faceless people. And even when certain events caused me to react with sadness, anger or pity, life went on pretty much the same. The community I lived in – never mind the world – seemed so big that chances were slim misfortune would hit close to home. I felt fearless . . . it was all so much noise in the background of my life.

It’s different now, here.
When I walked downtown this afternoon I was surprised to see the number of people at tables in my favourite bakery. More than usual for that time of day. Among them were two women I’m friends with and see infrequently. We’ll wave if we pass each other in town, maybe exchange a quick word, and go on about our business. Today, instead of grabbing a to-go and my bread, I sat down and had coffee with them and was introduced to another woman they were with. All of them resided very close to the house that was destroyed – one lived right next door, but none knew these neighbours more than casually. Amid discussions of the weekend’s fire, we made plans to get together later this week, exchanged numbers.

When tragic events happen in a small community, people have a tendency to congregate. There’s a real need to be among others because aside from curiosity, we all have feelings and grief to work through . . . it could so easily have been any one of us, and we regret that we never knew these people better. And so we reach out.

Later this afternoon, my daughter handed me a parent’s letter she’d been given at school to take home, and said that something bad happened to a boy at school and could I tell her about it. The primary grade children were not informed of the student’s death by their teachers, but youngsters are keenly aware of when things are not quite right with their little world.

Today, I learned that tragedy never strikes someone else.
Because it happened to the woman who worked at the donut shop where my husband buys his coffee.
Because it happened to her youngest son, who attended the same school as my child.
Because it happened to the family who lived next door to my friend.

And because this happened, I became a little closer to some people I know, and met another neighbour.
I sat down with my five year-old, and we had our first discussion about death and dying.

Today, I was reminded that home isn’t a house. It’s where you live and who you live with, and it stretches farther than you realize, because we are all connected.