Where the Heart Is

one of these things is not like the others ...

Most of the houses in my neighbourhood are near or over a hundred years old. I say “most” because a fair number of them have been torn down and replaced by what Boy Sister refers to as “chicken coop” houses – the West Coast style featuring flat roofs and no personality. They claim to reflect the environment in their slick wood façades and plate glass windows, but they actually stick out like the proverbial sore thumb among their elder neighbours. A recent trend has been to try and blend in with an arched roof and some fake Tudor accents around pseudo-mullioned windows, but really, it’s akin to setting out a plastic goblet with the Waterford.

I know the land is worth more than the structure sitting on it, but I’m beginning to resent the seemingly wanton destruction of older buildings to stuff bigger and less attractive domiciles onto property that once featured a lovely garden as well as a cute little cottage or a heritage home. I might view the influx more favourably if the new homes were multi-unit stratas or better yet, rental suites, but they’re not. Depending on the route I choose from the limo stop, I walk past at least three lots where older houses used to be, and none of the new constructs, though significantly larger than any of the original structures, appear built to accommodate more than one family and a basement suite to help the new owners make outrageous monthly mortgage payments. Worse, many single lots now feature a pair of too-big houses staring into each other’s windows, so there go the gardens for which Victoria was nicknamed.

I wonder sometimes where the ghosts go. Buildings house more than people, you know. They assume the energetic vibe of their occupants, and some of them retain that vibe long after the occupants have departed. Old buildings are particularly vibrant with the energy of their pasts. Ter and I were outnumbered by the phantoms in our suite at Rockland. That entire neighbourhood is rich with the presence of residents long past, drifting through the old mansions and manor houses that grace the tree-lined streets. It remains my favourite part of town, and I would happily return to it if I had the cash to snap up one of those crumbling old houses with their original woodwork and stained glass windows. If I had the cash, I’d buy one and restore it. I think it would thank me – and so would the ghosts.

Disheartened with the ubiquitous reconstruction of my current neighbourhood, I picked a rarely walked route home the other night. I thought that passing some less familiar houses would rejuvenate me after a particularly intense week at work. Surely, I thought, there is one street in Fairfield unblemished by new construction or a gaping hole where someone’s childhood home once stood.

A pair of teenaged boys were shooting hoops with a basketball halfway up the block. Cherry blossoms on the bubble of blooming beamed in the late afternoon sun. I noticed fresh paint on one of the houses, and new front stairs attached to another. Someone was mowing their lawn and the summery smell of cut grass blended with the salt breeze off the sea. I began to relax. My plan had worked. And then, I saw this:

*sigh*