Illustration by Marley Allen-Ash
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Several years ago, I read a real estate listing that triggered mixed emotions. The address used to be mine, but now the newly built, 3,500-square-foot house was “prestigious,” “flawless” and “luxurious.” For a mere $3.5-million, one could enjoy the two-toned brick driveway protected by short pillars and automatic gates. The interior images showcased high coffered ceilings, with an abundance of gold accents and chandeliers. Numerous tall ceramic vases were staged in strategic corners, leading to various features, including the panorama marble bathroom.
Antipathy and nostalgia grew as I scrolled through the well-lit photographs, which flaunted status for potential buyers. I no longer recognized even a hint of the place I held so dear. The Vancouver housing bubble erased my childhood home.
When I close my eyes from time to time, I see our version of what was a modest, Spanish-style house. We did not have marble bathrooms. In fact, two of them were carpeted, because it was 1974. The reason for this design choice was a puzzle my family tackled and never solved.
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Where there sits a three-door garage and gates was once our front yard, bordered by maples and rhododendrons; as kids we made snow angels on the front lawn in the winter. It was also the arena for sibling debates. One teenage summer, when our parents were away, my brother and I pondered whether a 30-inch-tall plant with striking violet flower was a weed to be pulled, or a specimen to be treasured.
“It’s a weed,” I concluded. “We left it for too long.”
“What if it’s a new variety they planted?” he replied. “We should leave it.”
Garden shovel in hand, we continued to discuss, until a neighbour saved us from horticultural torment.
“I can’t believe how long you guys left that weed, pull it!”
Dad spent much of his retired life in that front yard, weeding and trimming. To accompany him, or perhaps more accurately to tease him, I played Robert Schumann’s The Happy Farmer on our old upright piano just inside the front window. Each note had a slight buzz, from the piano sound board that had started to crack in old age. This Yamaha, a gift from Dad to Mom, was an irreplaceable instrument that Mom has kept to this day.
Instead of gold accents, the living room where our piano lived was decorated with Chinese calligraphy and a large, embroidered art of 12 birds, with characters that say “Good news every month.” Unlike now, the living room ceiling was reachable with our extended arms as we grew, bringing joy to see time measured. This was where I sat and shared my future aspirations with Mom, where my husband asked for permission to marry me and where Dad told me he only had a few months to live. It was a small space, mighty in its ability to keep our key moments of life safe.
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In my mind, I entered our kitchen and the backyard popped into view, where a small vegetable garden offered cherry tomato picking in early fall. I stuffed my face with them like a hamster, while Mom cooked on the decades-old stove, with a noisy overhead fan. The garden is now a kitchen island on marble floor because everything today needs to be marble.
Recently, I took a detour on my way home to visit the place in person. The new house is not my style, but perhaps it is now a childhood home for someone else – maybe even someone who looks a little like me.
If the old real estate listing had made me nostalgic, my double drive-by last month made me sad. The house now looks abandoned, with green moss on the pillars, a “BEWARE OF DOG” sign on the gates and shrubs in need of haircuts. Curtains were tightly drawn. If there were a front door mat, it would have probably said “Not welcome.”
Who lives there? Rotating renters and vacationers? Fifth family in the past six years? No one? Suspicion and judgment smudged images of a beloved basketball hoop with a partially torn net, badminton on the cracked driveway, and my son, then three years old, racing through the empty house on the day of our final goodbye. Disappointment grew like a weed in my mind.
Enough. The priceless house I see with my eyes closed, will remain. This time, I will pull the weed out sooner.
Jenny Chou lives in Delta, B.C.