Village Squire, 1977-02, Page 25WHERE HOME IS
It may not be perfect but it's special
BY SANDRA ORR
When we moved out to the farm, we felt as if we'd been
there a long time, that we belonged there, not just because
the house was old and lived in for a long time --it's as old as
most of the permanent houses built in this area --but because
we knew the people who had lived in the house for thirty-five
years and we knew who had lived there before that. We knew
who built the house and who probably built the first log
cabin on the property. We knew the history of the place, what
the plumbing facilities were, how they changed over the
years, the upgrading of the outhouse from one to a two -hole,
when the facilities were moved into the back shed, and
finally, the installment of the modern bathroom.
What we didn't know we were told by the neighbours. We
knew, for example, that one of the rooms upstairs had not
been used for thirty-five years. It is a long cold room with low
ceiling and a board on the wall with nails punched in it where
more than thirty-five years ago a flock of boys used to hang
their clothes. We were told where the various schoolteachers
used to stay in the house. It was not the long cold room with
the boys; it was downstairs with the heat. At present, mice,
accustomed to the vacancy, have set up quarters in the room.
You can see their trails in the dust.
It is a farm where the number of families and the number of
children can be counted and named and where they slept is
known --how they grew up and what they are doing now.
Things you would never think people would remember are
remembered and discussed. We know where the first owners
went with the wagons to get the brick for the three -layer
walls, what is now known as Southwestern Ontario brick, of
varying hues of coral, cream and grey from the amounts of
iron that was in the clay, arranged in a random pattern. It is a
soft brick with an erosion pattern from years of water running
off the roof.
When we looked at the thick beams in the barn, we saw
where the farmer had squared them by hand with an adze.
We noticed the square nails and the metal rings in the outer
wall where they could tie up the horses. We know, for
instance, that the sideroad was only a trail then and that they
probably brought the carriage around in a circle up to the
door. The road, the lane, and the yard are not the same at all
now, but the evidence is there if you look for it. Like the brick
bases for the two fireplaces in opposite corners in the
basement. They were gone long ago. And all the other
structural changes we wish had not been made.
We were told, of course, who was born in the house and
who died in it --at the end of conversations and in a quieter
tone of voice. When we bought the farm we were not just
acquiring a piece of property but we were stepping into a way
of life that we could destroy as easily as not. Things become
moderin in spite of us, the old way may be only a hindrance. If
we remember the past in our daily life it is because it still
exists. It is there for the noticing. There was the fear that the
house was so old that it would not last our lifetime. It had all
the inconveniences and imperfections of an old house,
cracked sills, ill-fitting windows, slanting floors. It wasn't
new, modern, or neat like other people's houses. Wouldn't it
have been easier to tear down the old structures because they
were too much bother to fix and contract for new buildings?
The discussion lasted only a few minutes becaused we knew
we couldn't do it, although we really didn't know why at the
time. It is a fear that the buildings will not last our lifetime,
we said as we went about fixing. A smidgeon of a psychologi-
cal doubt. They will last another fifty years. They have to.
Tonight, in the snow, with the icicles in a jagged row along
the roofline, the lights on, it looked very sturdy and
comfortable. Indeed, the house is very sturdy and
comfortable because when you are sitting inside, except for
the wind sounds and the snow crusted on the windows, you
would not know there was a storm outside. It's that three
layers of brick.
The farm is safe, comfortable, and relatively close to
nature. I can hear wolves yip when I open the back door, on
the odd cold windless winter night. They start at a low pitch
and end up in a high yowl. It is probably a pair with young. I
know where the den is. But there are no new tracks around it
now --they moved it since we found out. There are wolf tracks
and digging on Boot Hill, burial ground for victims of infant
animal mortality. There have been tracks around our back
door. The wolves have been up to the house, looking for
carcasses buried closer. After the first crop came off, we saw
a wolf with a spotlight at night as he hung around the cedars,
too long I thought, before he disappeared. We've had the odd
glimpse of one since, at dusk in the summer time, or coming
through the corn to cross the road.
Like any farmer, I walk around my property at fairly regular
intervals just to check, see how the resident hawk and snowy
owl are doing, what's happened since the last time. I know
who's been through and where they came from. If there are
any traps in the slough I spring them. There are times when I _
VILLAGE SQUIRE/FEBRUARY 1977, 2"
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