Last Saturday was "Doors Open" in our town. This is a day, planned mostly by the local Architectural Conservancy, when we go visit buildings we don't usually get to see inside, or that we didn't know were there.
Several of the attractions on "Doors Open" are works in progress. Beautiful old structures that were neglected or abused or misused for decades and are finally being rediscovered and restored.
One of the best was the old chapel in the graveyard. It's a small woodframe building over a hundred years old. There's a rectangular door set in the floor. It was used in the winter to lower caskets into the basement. They'd be stored on shelves until spring thaw when they'd be properly interred. They stopped using it, apparently, when caskets went from flat-topped to round-topped. They wouldn't fit on the shelves anymore, so other arrangements had to be made.
Over the course of the day, I played connect the dots to find information on our little corner of creation. Finally found this picture in an obscure library book:
Took this one tonight. (If you click on the pictures, you get a better look.)
The first one was taken shortly after the War. I can't look at it without a certain longing. I want to sit under the awning while the lady in the white dress serves me lemonade. Go for a stroll along the manicured paths through what was then 30 acres. And then, go for a ride in that fabulous car. Mostly the car.
The good old days.
Now, what was probably a perfect green is a cracked parking lot, the beautiful car has been replaced by a school bus that hasn't moved in at least two years, and the place where the lady in the white dress is standing smells like pee.
Ah, well. Things change.
Entropy, I think it's called. If you leave it alone, it will go downhill. This is a property where, legend has it, Pierre Trudeau once stayed. And Gordon Lightfoot, I'm told, used the swimming pool and the sauna. And if that's not enough, an episode of Degrassi Jr. High was filmed here.
I've never seen the sauna, and the swimming pool is full of discarded mattresses. I don't know how many people have come to visit, or talked to me about what we do there, and said, "I remember going to a wedding reception there." Or a Christmas party. Or a Valentine's dinner. Then they frown and shake their heads and say, "How did it get to be what it is today? What a shame."
It's all very sad.
And so many of us are in the same state. We've got good old days, we've got half-forgotten dreams. Swimming pools full of used mattresses. What a shame.
But the cool thing about the Motel is that so many of us are working our way back out from under. And it is work.
There's so much to be undone, first. Shaken. Broken. Torn down. Ripped out. Thrown away. Replaced. I think it must be the replacing that's the hardest. Figuring out what to put in place of.
Tonight, after I took the picture of the house I heard the sound of a table saw. Nobody lives near the Motel, so I figured it had to be H. And sure enough.
H. lives at the far back end of crack alley. It's a noisy and contentious neighbourhood. The rooms are some of the worst neglected on the property. But H. is renovating. He's got flooring lumber from somewhere and was cutting lengths to cover the plywood. Mending. Repairing. Restoring. Revitalizing. A parable at the back of crack alley.
The greatest beauties at the Motel right now are just the barest of blossoms. The few who are just - just - out from under and seeing the light for the first time in a long time. Who are grateful for the new found loveliness of themselves and for all the good that's been there all along, while they were too fogged in to see it. Dazzled by the world they'd forgotten was there. Those are the smiles that pierce and the laughs that warm. Those are the clearest eyes and the lightest, the surest of steps. Those are the silhouettes in the doorway that remind you to hope and to be grateful for the life you didn't lead.
r
Several of the attractions on "Doors Open" are works in progress. Beautiful old structures that were neglected or abused or misused for decades and are finally being rediscovered and restored.
One of the best was the old chapel in the graveyard. It's a small woodframe building over a hundred years old. There's a rectangular door set in the floor. It was used in the winter to lower caskets into the basement. They'd be stored on shelves until spring thaw when they'd be properly interred. They stopped using it, apparently, when caskets went from flat-topped to round-topped. They wouldn't fit on the shelves anymore, so other arrangements had to be made.
Over the course of the day, I played connect the dots to find information on our little corner of creation. Finally found this picture in an obscure library book:
Took this one tonight. (If you click on the pictures, you get a better look.)
The first one was taken shortly after the War. I can't look at it without a certain longing. I want to sit under the awning while the lady in the white dress serves me lemonade. Go for a stroll along the manicured paths through what was then 30 acres. And then, go for a ride in that fabulous car. Mostly the car.
The good old days.
Now, what was probably a perfect green is a cracked parking lot, the beautiful car has been replaced by a school bus that hasn't moved in at least two years, and the place where the lady in the white dress is standing smells like pee.
Ah, well. Things change.
Entropy, I think it's called. If you leave it alone, it will go downhill. This is a property where, legend has it, Pierre Trudeau once stayed. And Gordon Lightfoot, I'm told, used the swimming pool and the sauna. And if that's not enough, an episode of Degrassi Jr. High was filmed here.
I've never seen the sauna, and the swimming pool is full of discarded mattresses. I don't know how many people have come to visit, or talked to me about what we do there, and said, "I remember going to a wedding reception there." Or a Christmas party. Or a Valentine's dinner. Then they frown and shake their heads and say, "How did it get to be what it is today? What a shame."
It's all very sad.
And so many of us are in the same state. We've got good old days, we've got half-forgotten dreams. Swimming pools full of used mattresses. What a shame.
But the cool thing about the Motel is that so many of us are working our way back out from under. And it is work.
There's so much to be undone, first. Shaken. Broken. Torn down. Ripped out. Thrown away. Replaced. I think it must be the replacing that's the hardest. Figuring out what to put in place of.
Tonight, after I took the picture of the house I heard the sound of a table saw. Nobody lives near the Motel, so I figured it had to be H. And sure enough.
H. lives at the far back end of crack alley. It's a noisy and contentious neighbourhood. The rooms are some of the worst neglected on the property. But H. is renovating. He's got flooring lumber from somewhere and was cutting lengths to cover the plywood. Mending. Repairing. Restoring. Revitalizing. A parable at the back of crack alley.
The greatest beauties at the Motel right now are just the barest of blossoms. The few who are just - just - out from under and seeing the light for the first time in a long time. Who are grateful for the new found loveliness of themselves and for all the good that's been there all along, while they were too fogged in to see it. Dazzled by the world they'd forgotten was there. Those are the smiles that pierce and the laughs that warm. Those are the clearest eyes and the lightest, the surest of steps. Those are the silhouettes in the doorway that remind you to hope and to be grateful for the life you didn't lead.
r
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