Years ago my husband found us a tiny rental property squeezed between a long-established church and an older, down-at-the-heels three-floor walk-up. The area was quickly being taken over by small businesses and large apartment complexes. The house had been purchased by the church in order to expand its parking space, but the house wasn't slated for removal for at least a year.
Something about it had a certain charm: an aging relic, but still there was that special something. My mom-in-law, Jane, was particularly taken with the place. She fortunately had some skills that she was willing to put to good use: wallpapering, sanding, window washing. The large dining room had the lathe and plaster walls. In places the plaster was bulging, in others it sagged. Jane decided she didn't care to remove the old. She repapered overtop, sprucing up the interior without a lot of expense for a house awaiting demolition.
The room had the same tall double windows as the front parlour, without the stained glass panels. The view was of a shaggy side yard and the decrepit once white fence between us and a red brick apartment house. We faced the neighbours' back stoops, the piles of garbage and abandoned broken furniture. The old neighbourhood sat on the edge of downtown, with a Mom and Pop corner shop and various small buildings in declining repair. It was what realtors now call an "up0-and-coming community." A hopeful label to be sure.
The front of our little home boasted a small, sloping verandah, complete with two worn wicker basket chairs. It was entirely overgrown with vines and bushes, giving us the illusion of privacy when we lounged there in the hot summer evenings.
Our son's room overlooked the enclosed area, giving little light to the space. He slept in his first big bed, with chairs lining the bed, to prevent him from falling out.
Our room looked out onto the narrow alley, which doubled as the staff entrance for a service station on the main road. We also drove through to park behind the building; the street in front was a no-parking tow-away zone.
Our room wasn't large, but had a walk-in closet, quite a novelty for an old house. There was also a small door leading up a flight of steep stairs to the attic. My husband viewed it with longing, despite the house's future. He could imagine it transformed. The entire space was covered in shiplap and the end had a tiny window. The open area would have made an ideal den, library or another bedroom, although it was stifling, except of course in the dead of winter.
We were there long enough to endure a harsh winter, with record snowfall. My husband was out of town, marooned miles away. Thinking to go to the nearby corner store for a few essentials, I discovered that I too was snowed in, literally. The drifts were deep and mounded high. I could not get out. Perhaps I could have exited by one of those tricky windows. My brother-in-law came by after work to shovel me out and make sure we were all right.
That house had a museum piece for a heating system, a replica of the Titanic boilers for sure. It was accessed by a trap door in the kitchen and made the gas service man edgy when we called him. We were very aware of gas odours when we had been away, then returned home.
The home had been well loved in its day. The previous occupant had lived there forever. We felt privileged to have stayed there and could well imagine how it had been in its original condition.
