Our House
Memories of Home
The house where I grew up, in west-end
Toronto, was just ordinary to most people, but, to me it was special
- that is where things happened and memories grew - memories I
will always have.
It was a detached, brick two-storey, with
three large bedrooms and bath upstairs. The hall had a large,
spacious square at the top of the stairs.
The main floor had the living room (although
I could never understand why it was called that, as it was kept
for "company"), a very large dining room, and then,
my favourite room - the large kitchen, where we ate and all seemed
to congregate. To me, 'that' was our "living" room and
held a wealth of memories.
The dining room had a door with a cut-glass
doorknob. This led down to the "cellar". (We didn't
call it "basement" in the 1930's and 1940's.)
There was another entrance and exit to
and from the cellar. Cement stairs led down from - or up to the
the large backyard.
The cellar was the full length of the house
and there was a place for everything and everything in its place.
It was dark (probably three light bulbs at the most - only one
went on with the upstairs switch) but it was warm in the winter
and cool in the summer. It provided respite from the hot sun reflecting
off the city pavement.
The big coal furnace was centred, and behind
that, the hot-water tank and a gas heater which had to be lit
to provide enough hot water for Saturday-night baths.
The "coal bin" was the size of
a small room but I don't remember ever seeing it totally filled,
even after a delivery.
My mother's clothes lines for rainy and
winter days hung along the rafters between the asbestos-wrapped
furnace pipes. At the front, held all of my mother's preserves,
jams and jellies and bottled pickles that she so carefully labelled
and stored in a big handmade, wooden cupboard. The right corner
held crocks of sweet pickles.
Under the stairs was my brother's spot,
where he made lead soldiers and painted them. Later on, when he
was forced to move his chemistry set from his bedroom, he put
it in that spot. (The chemistry set is 'another' story).
There was plenty of room for my father's
garden tools and necessities, fishing gear, and our outdoor toys.
The wringer washing machine stood in front
of the two cement laundry tubs, to the right of the outside door
at the back of the house, and although Monday was called 'wash
day' in those days, I heard its steady, garrating motion many
nights when I was in bed. My mother sang her favourite Irish songs,
probably trying to shut out the monotanous drone of the machine.
I liked to think that she was singing 'just for me' and fought
sleep, not wanting to miss any of the clear notes that rose up
through the cold-air registers and enfolded me with warmth.
There was a long alleyway, just wide enough
for Bruce and Doreen to get their bikes through, between our house
and the one next door. We had a good-size front lawn, a large
front verandah and a small, open, back porch off the kitchen,
leading to the long back yard.
The yard was framed with flower beds. Roses
climbed the fence and made it home. They have always been my favourite
flower because my mother's name was Rose. My father planted them
there for her many years before I can remember and they bloomed
with profusion each year for as long as we lived there.
This home that I loved so much belonged,
for many years before my parents bought it, to the two maiden
sisters, next door. I was often asked to take the 'monthly' rent
to them and I remember carrying the large sum oh, so carefully,
and then breathing a sigh of relief when I had put the bills into
their hands. Twenty-five dollars was so much money! ~Joan Adams
Burchell~ (copyright)
Our front verandah
(and me)
Our cellar steps
and back porch (and Mom)
