The Farm

My parents' mid-life adventure began in the early 70's when it became a popular trend to leave the suburbs and move to the country. When they purchased this place it was in dire need of improvement. Such as plumbing. And electricity. My grandmother was living with them and prayed that the deal wouldn't go through but it did and she gradually learned to love the place as did everyone else in the family. We all called it 'the farm' but was no longer a working farm. But much work was lavished on it over the years. I think my parents were happiest during these years.

Soon after all the major work was done this sign was put up to welcome browsers. I didn't know that groundhogs could climb that high.

The shed became an antique shop specializing in Victoriana. Dad was still working in the city so Mom looked after the shop. There were a lot of clocks and they would all go off at once.

Mom worked all summer in the garden so that all winter they could enjoy its harvest. I believe that's a gooseberry bush in the right foreground.

This is an early watercolour I painted from the same vantage point.

Dad spent a lot of time on the tractor, especially in winter keeping the long driveway clear. I think he quit smoking soon after this photo was taken. Anyway he's still with us at age 93.

My sister Lynne enjoys the company of Jake and Bert while sitting in the sun on the front steps. Our Mom is at the door holding Lynne's daughter Melissa.

My boys. Andrew, ever the fisherman, sits with Jon and the dogs, Cornelia and Victor.

Here are the boys at the back door in one of my early watercolours.

This window on the upstairs landing is one of my favourite spots, especially when it's frosted and decorated for Christmas.

Many family meals were enjoyed in this dining room. Dad appears to be saying grace but I doubt it. Mom is perhaps glaring at him. My sons have a conspiratorial look while my grandmother, Mamoe, seems to be waiting for a glass of wine.

Dad, the patriarch, kneels in front of a gang of us in the kitchen. I'm standing behind him.

In 1981 VIA ran its last train behind the house. Soon after that the tracks were pulled up. I think that was a very foolish move. It's now a long, straight biking and walking trail which I find quite boring.

Victoria House as it looked after many years of TLC. You can just make out the image of Bert the dog in the shadows.

Victoria House, the watercolour.

Vancouver Island

This is the tenth anniversary of our flight out of paradise. Here we are at the top of Mount Maxwell on Saltspring Island, gazing west to Vancouver Island which was our home for awhile. People often ask why on earth we would leave such an idyllic spot. The short answer is RAIN. In fact there were many reasons why we left but basically, despite having met many friendly people, we missed the east. It was an adventure though.

This is the closest I got to painting a mural in Chemainus. It's a garbage bin...oops...beautification barrel. Here I'm depicting a historical building, namely the first library in town. It was for a contest. I won a prize.

For Chemainus Day George dresses as a camera and cavorts in the parade with Neil, the clown.

He's happy to get out of that outfit. The blue tights are cute though.

George gets his picture in the paper as a member of the 'Brady Bunch' jazz band. They played a few happenin' gigs in Victoria, Duncan and at the Chemainus Daze (sic) parade.

Still our first year there. I get invited to a dress-up tea party and find myself in the paper. It's quite easy to be 'famous' here.

You can't believe everything you read in the paper. This publicity shot for the murals of Chemainus shows George and I 'scrubbing' one of them. As if. It was all a set-up. But when I saw the picture in the paper I began to question our reason for being there in the first place.

As volunteers for the community a bunch of us got to go aboard a minesweeper! I don't know why.This one, HMS Mirimachi, took us up to Ladysmith and around Galliano Island. And around...and around. Nice way to spend an afternoon.

Not sure what I was thinking while sitting on that log in the rainforest but maybe it was, "what am I doing here?"

This was our little house. It was described in real estatese as a 'character house' meaning you need a good sense of humour to appreciate it. Good thing we had lots of experience in the renovating and decorating business. It took us six years to turn this place from homely to homey. And then we sold it.

But before leaving I painted this little watercolour. If you click for a larger image you can see the two cats. (Not the ones we have now) They flew back a few days ahead of us.

Sainte Anne de Bellevue---NOW

This is the neatest thing! A few weeks ago I got an e-mail regarding my blog post about the house where I grew up. It was from the present owner, Ryan Young, who teaches media studies at John Abbott CEGEP. We arranged a meeting on Labour Day weekend. The above picture shows the house as George and I walked up the hill towards it. I felt pretty excited and a tiny bit apprehensive, but as it turned out there was nothing to worry about; we had a wonderful visit and met two lovely people.

This is it. 25 Lamarche. It still looks the same and as I was to discover, much of the interior remains unchanged.

I can hardly believe it, here I am sitting on the front steps with Ryan. I was 13 the last time I sat here. (in 1956, you can do the math!) Ryan and Kate graciously showed us around. To me it was like the Twilight Zone.

Ryan is inviting us upstairs.

Here is Kate at the top. The staircase is exactly as I remember it. The painting is one of many by Ryan's Mom. There is an elephant in this one. I'd like to meet her some day and talk about art.

The old grate is still there!

The only room I never saw when I was a kid: the attic. It was not like this back then! Ryan's Mom has hung it with fabric so it looks like a Moroccan tent and was used as a loft/t.v. room. There is a ladder permanently installed to gain access but being a bit of a chicken about heights I only went half-way up to get this shot.

My old bedroom window overlooks the screened porch. The poplar trees are now HUGE.

In what used to be our dining room a music studio has evolved containing a beautifully refinished old piano and Ryan's drum kit...

...and another painting by Ryan's Mom. Creative expression abounds throughout the house.

The door from the kitchen is still the same, leading to the porch.

After our tour we sat on the screened porch, drank tea and chatted. As you can imagine there was much to discuss, to remember and to discover. One of the bonuses was Ryan's film about the history of the village, its merger with the city of Montreal and its subsequent de-merger. George and I purchased his DVD called THE VILLAGE RESISTS and watched it when we got home, a perfect finish to this extraordinary day. I would highly recommend the film to anyone who has the slightest connection with the delightful town of Ste Anne de Bellevue. It's available through:

Vision 9 Productions,
25 Lamarche, Sainte Anne de Bellevue, Quebec, H9X 2A9
(514)-457-9758

Sainte Anne de Bellevue, Quebec, ( Way Back When...)

This is the house I grew up in. I still dream about it and everything remains very vivid. It had a certain smell and atmosphere which I can conjure up at will. The rooms were small by today's standards but we were lucky to live there and particularly enjoyed the wraparound porch which was screened in the summer. The only room I never went into was the attic, understandably, since the opening was just above the stairwell and a pretty scary climb.

The rent was something like $25/month. There was no garage, few people owned cars back then. My Dad walked to work, Mom walked to the village to shop and we walked to school. Train service was excellent and again, within walking distance. It was a nice way to live.

Our kitchen had five doors; back-porch, side porch (pictured) front hall, dining-room and cellar. There was painted burlap wainscoting around all the walls with dark wood trim. The colours I remember were teal blue and cream. Mom made the vintage frilly curtains on her treadle sewing machine and did the laundry in this ringer-washer. Forget about clothes-dryers...she used the line outside and in winter the stiff clothes were arrayed over the various radiators which we referred to as 'coils'. I would sometimes wake up at night to the sound of urgent thumping followed by hissing. That meant Dad was 'bleeding' the coils. It didn't bear thinking about.

Mom used the coal stove which involved carrying lumps of coal from the cellar (not a basement, it was very rough) in a skuttle and feeding them in through a hole in the top and poking them around to adjust the flames. In winter she would warm our clothes by the open oven door. The neatest thing was the upstairs grate which let the heat up to the bedrooms and through which my sister and I used to spy on the visiting grownups, sometimes sending down messages tied to a string. Messages like 'We need gingerale' or 'Come upstairs and see us.' It often worked.

Here I am, aged five, proudly holding my cherished Maggie Muggins doll on Christmas Day. I remember the beige and white flocked wallpaper installed by my parents. Tres chic for the time! On the table next to me are several tins of cigarettes, either Players or Export A, destined to be given as gifts to the milkman, iceman or coal deliveryman.

This is the idealized watercolour version I painted for my parents some years ago. The property seems considerably larger and the adjacent houses no longer exist, but everything about the house is correct and the poplar trees and hollyhocks were really there.