This Old House

by Abigail Vint

"Does this mean we're rich?"

The house looked like a mansion. And wasn't that a valid question for a ten-year-old to ask?

My parents, my younger sisters, my younger brother, my cat and I had moved into a glorious, century-old Victorian-style house. Little did I know it wasn't money that would make my life rich but the glorious imaginative experiences I had in that house.

The three-story-high house had been built in the late 1800s. Although set back from the road, the eight large pink pillars in the front could be seen from down the street. >From the sidewalk you climbed up four steps, then along a walkway, then eight more steps to the front porch with the pillars before you entered the old house through a magnificent, heavy iron cast windowed door. The house had high ceilings with round corners connecting wall to ceiling, hardwood floors with character scratches, Victorian-style architecture with stained glass windows and bursts of light, as well as classic decorating colours. It's amazing to think how such a fantastic-looking place soon became familiar and "home."

To the right of the door was the ten-by-fifteen-foot living room, where my grandmother's piano sat. We all played the piano a little and it became the centrepiece for our many singing and dancing shows - all captured on video, of course. Across from the living room and to the left of the front door was a sitting room with a fireplace. My mother spent many a Sunday afternoon there, curled up with a blanket, watching the fire, and enjoying a drink. We kids would wander in and out, keeping her company sporadically throughout the day.

Just past the front door was a staircase that faced a magnificent fifteen-foot mirror. Fashion shows, movie sets and last minute outfit checks on date nights all happened in front of this mirror. Next to it was the dining room, where we ate dinner almost every night. Dinner was much more than simply eating; it was also the social time of the day and we would sit around after we'd finished eating, talking and laughing, telling stories and enjoying each others' company. We also impressed our friends over the years with the servants' bell under the table that you pushed with your feet.

The house was so ancient that it was divided into two - one part of the house for the owners and one for the servants. The front door brought you into the main part of the house and you accessed the servants' side through the dining room.

Even though the kitchen was "officially" the start of the servants' quarters, it was in some ways one of the most important rooms in the house. We ate breakfast at the small table in the centre, watched and helped my parents prepare meals, loaded and unloaded the dishwasher, unpacked the groceries, had conversations about borrowing the car or staying over at friends houses, and carried out the rest of the mundane details of family life in that kitchen.

A significant fixture the kitchen was put up before we even moved in. On the wall facing the fridge was a black and white photograph of the house with its original owners sitting out front. No one was smiling, but sitting very stoically facing forward towards the lens, expressionless. My parents told us that the photograph must always stay with the house. I imagined it as something official, like a clause in the buyers' agreement but perhaps it was something people had just done, out of love for both history and the house.

A small staircase near the kitchen played second fiddle to the grand stairs facing the large mirror in the front hall. Seven steps, then a small landing, then eight more steps--I used to count them every time I would walk up.

"The landing" was the heart of the second floor as it was where all the rooms met. To the right was the T.V. room. My mother had on display all her family photographs, dating back to when her grandfather played ice hockey for the Toronto Maple Leafs. This room watched every Super Bowl, every movie, every television show. It watched our family feasts on New Year's Eves. It watched me eat the sandwich my mother made me after drinking and partying on my 19th birthday--a Canadian adult right of passage.

My parents' bedroom was such a comfortable place. I loved to sleep an extra ten minutes every school morning in my parents bed, listening to them chat away as they got ready for work.

My brother's bedroom, with high ceilings and tall windows, was next to the bathroom. I remember reading him stories and helping him tidy when he was little. This was the room that he would retreat to when, to the surprise of my parents and various visitors, he would announce at the age of six or seven that he was tired and would like to go to bed at 7:30 p.m.

The third floor, however, was the kid haven. A converted attic, it looked very much like servants' quarters with blue speckled carpets and floral baby blue wallpaper. It had my small room and my sisters' large bedroom and a walk-in closet that later became a very handy bathroom. As there were three of us, we would fight over the two sinks every morning, until we figured out a timing system. My sisters' room had three sections, which made it look a bit like a Greek Orthodox religious cross.

My sisters each had identical areas, with beds and dressers, on opposite sides of the room, with a pillar and curtains to give them a bit of privacy. The square central area was for all of us. It was where I would sleep on the couch on Christmas Eves. It was where we would play Monopoly, Barbies or "house" for hours. Monopoly always seemed to go on forever. We would sometimes stop in the middle and then come back to the game, only to find that we had forgotten whose turn it was. I always got the "best" Barbie, I guess because I was the oldest and demanded it. The dolls would have homes and cars and probably end up fighting with their Kens and then have to rush to their friends' houses for comfort because well, men were such jerks. "House" always involved dressing up and drinking tea. We eventually were given a McDonald's Drive Thru, which we incorporated into our play world. Later, we entertained friends and boyfriends in that room. It was like having our own apartment.

My room had an interesting look to it. With its slanted room and tiny window, it was my peaceful place. The little door beside my bed brought me the most enjoyment. It led down an eerie hallway--with open rafters and exposed pink insulation--to a small crawl space, perfect for sitting. When I was about 13, my friend Laura and I decided we should clean out the long hallway and use it for our secret hideaway. We pulled out piles of newspapers, sermons from the 1920s-30s written by a former owner who was a pastor, a large empty trunk and lots of dust. In the end, we placed a blanket at the end of the corridor, put all the clippings together in a binder and spent time reading them aloud, looking for a hidden clue to an unsolved mystery only we would stumble upon. We also left pictures of ourselves tacked up on the wooden beams to create a mystery for years to come. Sometimes I even imagined my children finding those pictures, wondering how this little girl with a bowl cut and thick glasses could actually be their "mommy."

It wasn't just the inside of the house, however, that expanded our imaginations. We had an enormous backyard--eventually with a pool, but always with a swing set. There were birch trees, large poplar trees, hanging willow trees. The large driveway was perfect for riding our bikes and later roller-blading up and down. The back section was a perfect rectangle, ideal for a badminton court, my dad's ice rink and even for training my dog Davis to do tricks. There was a pear tree for climbing, a grape vine for picking and a fern grassy area ideal for spotting rabbits and other little critters. We didn't need a cottage. We had a backyard.

We had everything we could want in that house. But sometimes, you don't know what you've got until it's gone.

My mother had mentioned the possibility of a big move to me during a phone call while I was studying for my first semester exams in second year university. To be honest, I didn't take much notice. My parents had been talking about moving ever since I was little. First it was San Francisco, then Texas. I even remember Australia. Sometimes the Yukon or Northwest Territories would come up. It was always somewhere far off, somewhere unreachable. Unattainable. Unbelievable.

But when my parents sat us all down at Christmastime 1996 to discuss the possibility of moving to North Carolina, it was different. This time, my dad had a job offer. He had a city in mind. He had a date in mind.

My brother and I reacted the same way. We both started crying. Our sisters were already making big plans about friends and activities. But neither Ross nor I wanted to go. We started asking question after question, through tears, trying to be brave but inside, utterly terrified. I should have perhaps been a bit of a "bigger girl" about the situation. The one thing I had going for me, however, was that I was 19 going on 20. I had the luxury of choosing to stay. I was in my second year university and had friends and a relationship. I decided to sit this family adventure out.

My brother, eight years younger, did not have that option. My parents listened as we talked, trying to see if they could understand and make it better. It seemed, though, it was really coming down to one thing. The house.

It took me a long time before I could drive by without feeling sad. My family has not lived there for six-and-a-half years. It's a surreal feeling seeing someone else's bikes on your front lawn. For so many years, everyone had known that house as the Vint house. Now, who's house would it be? And, if people stopped remembering it as the Vint house, did that mean they'd stop remembering the Vints? Was my childhood going to be lost because of our house?

But nothing and no one can take away those memories. And I don't need that house to keep them. All of my family members are heading in more interesting directions because my parents threw caution to the wind and left that house. Sometimes I shudder to think what our lives would have been like if my parents hadn't been as brave as they were. Today we are a writer, a theatrical promoter, a theatre student with small business ideas and a film student with enough footage to make another Lord of the Rings trilogy. My mother started another career in the literary world and my father is a drummer. Most of this would never have happened if we had stayed attached to a house.

Losing that house has taught me how important the people are, not the rooms or the windows or the walls or the cubbyholes. It's given me the independence to let go of material items and to truly live. Besides, there are lots of little girls and boys who deserve to live in a mansion and create mysterious stories from treasures found in secret places.