The House in Town

After mom and dad left the farm they moved to a little white house in town, on a great big lot, complete with garden plots and flower beds and a big old barn shaped storage shed/garage.  Dad warned us that we shouldn’t come in the back door too fast or we might just go right out the front door and miss the whole thing.  It was a lot smaller than what they were used to, but I think they found it much more manageable, and quite enjoyed their time there.  The house had two bedrooms, an open area dining/kitchen/living room all on one level;  a smaller sort of tv room, laundry room and bathroom two steps down;  a small entry way in the back and a nice deck in the front.  There was a beautiful weeping willow tree on their front lawn and a short little driveway to a quiet street.  The back of their property bordered on a section of the “Rail Trail”, a pedestrian walkway created where the railway tracks once ran.

We really thought with such a downsize that they’d have less company, but I don’t think that was the case.  They positively thrived on having visitors and always welcomed anyone and everyone who showed up on their doorstep.  

The living room was incredibly pink, and bright and airy. That’s my mother-in-law and her sister (who lived in Clinton) beside mom on the couch, and dad on the chair in front. 

 

And this is the two of them beside the deck.  Both pictures were taken by my father-in-law.  I think it’s quite amazing that they all liked and visited eachother so much, considering that the only things they really had in common were two children who married eachother.  And mutual grandchildren and great grandchilren, of course. 

In that small little kitchen and with her greatly diminished eyesight, my mom could still create a small feast.  No one ever left hungry.  I think they were there for about six years.  I remember my last couple of visits were just with mom, because dad had moved to the care centre.  I know she didn’t like being there on her own, but just the same the decision to leave it and join him was a very difficult one.  The move from the farm was hard, but somehow I think the move from this little place was even harder, because it meant giving up so much more of their independence. 

The house now belongs to one of my brother’s sons, and they rent it out to a single guy.  One day they hope to move there, tear down the old house and build a new one.  I expect the barn will also be history.  Along with the pink carpet and the pink curtains and the whispy white sheers that let the sunshine pour in.  But those things are vivid images in many people’s memories and can’t be so easily obliterated.  The little house in town will always be a small part of who my parents were, if only in the minds eye.