Village Squire, 1979-04, Page 42P.S.
The saps
are running
BY KEITH ROULSTON
It's happening all over the land. As the
sap rises in the maple trees, so the saps
rise. As the buds fill out on the trees, so the
budding enthusiasm swells on the part of
people who dream of finding a little place
in the country and fixing up the old house
into a private paradise.
It's the great Canadian dream: that
house in the country. It flourishes
particularly in the cities where anything
with more than 50 square feet of grass is
like owning an estate and where simply.
investing in a house can be a decision akin
to the financing of the Canadian Pacific
Railway.
Recently in the London Free Press an old
school mate of mine, Joe Matyas, wrote a
book review on Harrowsmith magazine's
The Harrowsmith Reader and found that
the vast majority of the magazines more
than 100,000 subscribers live in the big
city. Many don't even own land at all, even
though the magazine sells the pleasures of
the back7to-the-land. Only about 10 per
cent really own land in the country and
work it, in any. way.
What the magazine is then, is a dream
medium. Itis today's investment for the
dream of tomorrow. People buy the
magazine and feel that they're taking the
first step to their country estate by taking
in all the tidbits of information the
magazine gives about homesteading.
But this time every year a certain
number of those dreamers put their
dreams into reality. They drive out in the
country and visit the small town real estate
offices and look for country properties.
Most of them want a few acres with an old
farm house. All of them want a pleasant
stream running past their back door. (A
few end up with an unpleasant stream
running through their basement).
A few of us will make a purchase. 1 say
"us" because a few years ago we joined
the group. We exchanged our tiny cramped
house in the village for a big two-storey,
spacious job in the country on four acres
(that's what the ad said but of course it's
really only 3.6) of land. That was our first
mistake.
If people really knew what they were
getting into when they buy an old house,
they'd never get into it. Unfortunately, or
fortunately depending on your viewpoint,
40 Village Squire, April 1979
they don't and even if someone sets out to
tell them, they won't believe it.
Now we knew to a certain extent what we
were getting into. We walked into it with
out eyes wide open. We'd done a lot of
fixing in our house in town to make it
habitable when some people told us it was
ready for the wrecker's hammer. We
weren't about to get into another major
rebuilding process. Not like our neighbours
who bought a house that most people
would have written off and in five years
have donated all their spare time and all
their spare cash towards making it come to
life again.
No. we weren't going to do that. We
toured the house and, saw that a good deal
of work had already been done to the place
so we wouldn't have to make any major
investments for a while.
We didn't either. Oh of course there was
the new chimney we had to put up a few
months after we moved in to save us from
either freezing to death or burning the
house down in our first winter. Then there
was the water heater that threatened to
explode and was replaced. Other than that.
we didn't do much the first couple of years.
We lived with the wallpaper we hated. We
lived with the ugly linoleum in the kitchen.
We stored up our energy for the assault
ahead.
All that had to change when we decided
to move our office out to the big summer
kitchen out back. That fateful decision has
kept us building ever since. We had to fix
the roof before we could put in the wiring.
We had to put in the wiring before we
could put in the insulation. We had to put
in the insulation before we could put on the
wallboard and the wallboard before we
could put in the rug and the rug before we
could put in the heaters and so it went until
the room is now at least habitable after
over a year of working. Not finished, mind
you, but habitable.
°Having accomplished this, the wife then
decided it was time to start working on the
rest of the house: to make it our own.
(Actually with the amount of money we've
spent I think it belongs more to the
electrician, the carpenter, the building
supply company and the paint and
wallpaper dealer). So last fall the
construction moved into the main house. It
culminated last month in a decision to sand
the old hardwood floors, to bring out all
that natural beauty. Unfortunately there's
a heck of a lot of unnatural pain that goes
into bringing out that natural beauty. First
it was the din that threatened permanent
deafness. The noise was so bad you
couldn't hear the telephone ring unless you
were standing within two feet of it.
Then there was the dust that made air
pollution in Hamilton look like clean
country air. I keep getting this feeling my
lungs are now gigantic bags of sawdust. Of
course the dust didn't all go in the lungs. It
floated through every crack and crevice in
the house to sit in thick heaps in every
corner and ledge in the house. It only took
three days to do the job. It only seems like
it took three months.
I've come to the conclusion too that this
kind of work only really looks good in
somebody else's house. There you can only
see the over all beauty of the finished work.
When I look at my own house all I can sec
is the long hours of work that went into it
and all the little imperfections that
resulted. Somehow all the fun is gone.
I have sworn I will not take on another
major project for a while. Unfortunately. I
know I won't stick to the promise. There's
work to be done in the living room yet.
There's papering and painting to be done
and ceilings to be fixed. And if the day
should ever come when that's all done
without something else having fallen apart.
there's all that beautiful ancient woodwork
that should be stripped.
That's enough to make a sane man
quake and run off to a nice modern.
no -work -to-do apartment. But insanity
runs high among those who move to old
houses in the country.
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