This morning I logged onto my computer and do what I’ve done every week day for the last few years— checked realtor.ca for new listings in Pictou County. I was not prepared for what I saw.
My childhood home. Newly listed. A dollar value attached to it for the first time since 1970.
I burst into tears.
Is it okay to cry about a house you haven’t lived in for 10 years? Even as I cried, I felt guilty because I know there are people close by without any homes at all. Still, my body wracked with sobs as Calvin sat by uncertain about what to do.
In the words of Winnie the Pooh, “How lucky am I to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard?”
In two weeks, I’m flying home to say goodbye to the only home I’ve ever known my parents to live in. The home with it’s secret room under the bunk beds, terrifying dirt walls in the basement, and carefully and artfully plastered ceilings that keep you mesmerized whether you’re depressed or in flying high in mania.
I promised myself that I would stay quiet as long as it was “home.” Understanding that the privacy of those who live there is important. But this morning, as I cried on the phone with my mother, I told her I needed to talk about it or I would never be able to move on from a place I love so much.
When I was back in January of 2023, I got it in my head that I wanted to capture the house exactly as I remember. I asked Mum and Dad for permission, and it was granted. I did an entire walk through of the house and carefully chose background music to reflect the hours of listening to some of the only music we were allowed to listen to during our growing up years.
This was a the result:
I wanted Mum at the computer playing online games and Dad in his chair probably upset about something on he saw on his tablet— but most of all I wanted my mother waving good bye at the end as she so often waved as we went off to school each day.
People may wonder why, I, the person who has struggled the most with my upbringing, would be so heartbroken and attached to the tall house on the street that was run down. Why I would be so devastated about a home that I often felt out of place in.
There is one thing I know for certain about it—- there was love there. There were years of unbroken hearts and countless games. A half pipe in the back yard, followed by a trampoline— a place where all the neighbourhood kids were welcome. (except on Sundays, because we couldn’t play on Sunday.) There was manhunt, seven times around the house, chestnut fights, wood forts, and capture the flag.
The house had a lot of secrets too. Secrets that were written into diaries and cried about years later in therapy. It’s where every single one of us brought at least one boyfriend or girlfriend and they had to try Mum’s cooking. If lucky— her famous roast beef dinner.
And speaking of dinners. It’s where we sat down to eat every single day. It’s where we piled into the living room to sleepily to read our Bibles first thing in the morning.
It’s where there were hymn sings for hundreds of youth. A stop over for travelling preachers. A place my parents strongly believed wasn’t theirs— but rather a place to be hospitable— much to my annoyance when travelling preachers came and had deep and serious conversations that sometimes involved talking about us being awful.
But forget about all that. It was there, in the room that used to be the junk room, I could breathe. When school became too much and I had nightmares about the bus, I could run to my room. When the division absolutely rocked the church, and destroyed any semblance of a happy gathering— I could run to my room. When I was bewildered about certain manic symptoms that threatened to overflow, I could run to my room. There was always the light green ivy filled room with stars on the ceiling.
My ivy green room was a refuge.
And when it caught fire in early 2010, I will never forget the pit in my stomach about the thought of losing it.
I have very few memories of having older siblings who lived in the same home as me. But any I do have are of that house.
Of #6 dancing in the living room and letting loose. Of bringing his high school friends to jump from the barn roof onto the trampoline.
Of # 7 and #8 screaming at each other about clothes and the slam of the door as they swore to never speak to each other again, only to make up minutes later.
#8 weeping after a heartbreak and then putting herself back together again by playing the huge piano in the toy room.
#5 painting our giant grey van with it’s dark blue stripe and then later buying a trampoline for #9. The time #5 came up the driveway with his snowboard and Mum ran to give him a hug because he had hitchhiked back to surprise her.
#7’s secret collection of make up that I can still smell to this day.
#3 telling me very earnestly in the kitchen after I’d woken up that he was going to get married.
#2 buying Tom and Jerry Slapsticks and stocking the fridge with treats for us because they were normally too expensive. Being SO excited when she came home and being confused when she was content just to sit and be in the big house.
#1 coming back and wanting to do all the picnics and berry picking and a trip to PEI.
There were nights there was absolutely nothing in the cupboards and we would eagerly wait for Dad’s pay day where he would take #8 to get groceries with him and and for one night only, it would be exciting to have stocked shelves.
There was navigating life with #9 & #11. The youngest of the kids and having the privilege of choosing our own rooms. #9 with her pretty purple wallpaper and #11 getting the coveted big bunk bed.
The shouts of “I’M COMING THROUGH, PULL THE CURTAIN!!” as we raced through the hallway bathroom while someone was in the bath. Or even worse. Begging to pull the curtain so it could be used. “IT"S AN EMERGENCY!” echoing through the house.
Memories of Mum making plaster molds in the basement or fighting the the huge freezer they couldn’t afford to replace.
The stories about the possible buried person in the walls.
The blanket with the blue stripe and brown stripe where me and #9 would dream about our farm and river we wanted to have later in life.
The laundry chute we would toss clothes and land in the endless mountain for Mum on the first floor.
The kitchen where so many meals were cooked and where many family fights and debates came to a boiling point.
The living room I would give anything in the world to sit and talk with #11 again on the million years old couches that have been reupholstered many times.
The light at the top of the stairs that is definitely out of code but I will hear in my dreams forever.
The sound of the town bells and the train when you lay in bed at night.
The ancient wood furnace that Dad continues to use even though I’m scared he will fall.
The skates hanging on the nails— ready for us when #3, #4, #5, and #6 made a rink in the backyard.
The two rooms that were built because my parents couldn’t stop having kids and there was nowhere to put us.
The cursed Murphy bed that injured my mother and took away all of this.
I always dreamed of bringing kids back to see it. Showing the room where I kissed a boy with such passion I was convinced we’d get married. Only to be so heartbroken it’s still painful to go in that room.
Bringing kids back to see the built in shelves, spooky attic, and where to find the board games at the top of the toy cupboard.
Showing them the table leaves that made a slide. Teaching them hotels that I played with Shelby and Stephanie.
Explaining who Anna and Shelby were and why there are pictures of them in the stars stuck to my wall.
Explain how the papers were delivered out front, all stacked, and ready for us to deliver all over town.
Show them the creepy stuffed lion and smelly mittens box.
Walk with them to Sobeys and share how I would meet Caroline there so often and then later work at the building across the street.
Most of it is packed up now. And until it’s sold, I won’t tell anyone about the 3 ways I know how to break in.
The home where Smokey the kitty lived for ten years. Keeping it mice free and providing unending loyalty.
This isn’t the beautiful eulogy for a building it should be. I’m wrapped up in the pain of knowing I will never walk to Kirk Avenue with #9 & #11 again.
All I want to do is call #11 and ask if we can meet there one more time. Argue there one more time. Run down the stairs one more time. Snuggle Smokey one more time.
In all of this, I just want to meet #11 at 130 MacKay.
But time is slipping by. It’s on the market. There’s been three showings already and two more tomorrow.And soon it won’t be there for me to know I can go back to. My family is splintered, and every day with my parents feels like a rare gift.
This isn’t me pretending things weren’t painful or were perfect. I could also talk about knowing our house was run down and there were people who looked down on it, or trying to navigate the currents of many different things within those walls. There was a lot of darkness, but it’s now that I’m choosing to remember the light.
For the first time, I feel bitter about not having money. Bitter I can’t buy it and make sure it’s loved forever.
But in two weeks I go back to pick the dandelions I would gather each spring for Mum. Because when dandelions die, they spread around. The closest picture of love I know.
I’m not ready to say goodbye. But I know I have to.
