Where Love Has Lived
“A home is not simply a building; it is the shelter around the intimacy of a life. ”
Writing my sixth attempt at an opening sentence for this blog post, I again hit backspace. Where to start? As I write, a squirrel jumps from the tree by the bedroom window up to the roof. The tree that was only a sapling thirty years ago when we lugged our belongings across the playground to this larger townhouse, better suited for our growing family. Last Saturday, a neighbour posted photos of the construction of our housing co-op thirty-four years ago. We were involved from day one when this property was a weed-filled tract of land.
A brief explanation of housing co-ops for those who may not be familiar with the concept. Housing co-ops provide secure, affordable housing. We are members, not tenants, and while we may not own this home, we make all decisions about our community based on co-operative principles. Thirty per cent of our townhomes are available to low-income families, who pay a monthly charge geared to their income. Diversity is a main ingredient of co-op living; our community is multi-generational and multi-cultural.
Now it is time to say goodbye, and a small part of my heart breaks at the thought of this ending. Yes, I long for this next phase of our lives - our island home, retirement, and new adventures with my husband - but wrapping up this phase of our lives is heart-breaking.
I am leaving a community I longed to be part of for many years. I wanted a permanent home after moving far too often as a child. We wanted a community to raise a family. We wanted neighbours who would become friends. And that is what we found. Our oldest daughter was born nine months, and two weeks after we moved here, the first baby to be born in our housing co-op.
A handful of families have lived here since the beginning. I have witnessed births, deaths, divorce, and heartbreak. I have made enduring friendships. I have watched children grow up, some eventually settling here with their babies. We helped build the playground, our handprints a permanent reminder in the cement. We started an informal babysitting co-op, gifting each other much-needed breaks. We held community barbecues, garage sales, and celebrations.
But that does not begin to describe what I am leaving behind. My head is swirling with so many little moments. The ringing of the doorbell and a neighbour on my doorstep in tears, asking for a hug. Going to check the mail and finally returning two hours later, having stopped for several conversations. Laughing as a friend climbs through a window because her three-year-old has locked her out. Remembering my children avoiding neighbours on Hallowe’en because their displays were just too creepy. Fighting the removal of the basketball hoop that neighbours felt was too noisy. Grateful for the flowers and hand-drawn cards left at our door by children when our old dog, Tucker, died.
Ah, the children - I think they are who I will miss most of all. We have over one hundred kids in our community, many under ten. The same smiling faces sold us Girl Guide cookies year after year. Children swarmed Tucker with hugs every time we headed out for a walk. Sitting on the balcony, I listened to young voices who negotiated and reprimanded, working out their own problems. Over the years, I have watched young ones take their first hesitant steps, squeal as they master a two-wheeler, and slowly drive by with an N, designating a new driver.
Walking into Steveston, British Columbia along the boardwalk.
I did not get my license until I was forty-five; so the village, only a 15-minute stroll, became an extension of my community. The ivy-covered garden centre with upside-down Christmas trees full of decorations. The second-hand bookstore, with aisles so narrow I felt I might die buried in books - what a fitting way to go! The clothing boutique selling 'my look'. The bakery whose delicious pastries added a few pounds to my hips. My favourite gift shop, family-run for over twenty-five years, offering tea from the finest tea estates, Japanese housewares, beautiful pens and stationery, and exquisite fragrances and beauty products. And then there are the people - the post office clerk who greeted me with a hug, the librarian who welcomed me by name, and the barista who smiled as I walked through the door, asking, an oat latte?
Some of my favourite Steveston shops (L-R): Nikaido, Stepin Out, Rocanini Coffee Roasters, and Prickly Pear
On Tuesday night, my husband and I headed to our local Mexican restaurant for tacos and margaritas, enjoying the sunshine and an ocean breeze on the patio. I spent the following afternoon working on my computer in a coffee shop, spending too much time people-watching. Later in the week, I walked into the village to meet a friend for happy hour. Each time I walked to the village this week I was flooded with memories. I have always felt a deep gratitude to be able to call this community home but this week I have been keenly aware of all I will be leaving behind.
I have started a list of all I want to accomplish before leaving -
Buy pastries to enjoy with my elderly Dutch neighbour on her front step
Dig up my hostas for neighbours - no use taking them, the island deer will eat them!
Move our deck and lilac tree into our neighbour’s yard
Treat a dear friend and neighbour to dinner and drinks
Take my granddaughter to the water park where I used to take her mother and aunt
Order a banana frozen yogurt from the ice cream shop
Stock up on quality notebooks and pen refills
Enjoy a last serving of saag paneer at the Indian-Ugandan restaurant that has become one of my favourites
Watch a sunset by the ocean
Bike the dykes
Order halibut cheeks from the fish and chip stand
Susan Cain writes that endings give way to beginnings just as much as beginnings give way to endings. My life feels so full as I stand on this new threshold. I feel sorrow and loss, as well as anticipation and excitement. And I feel blessed to have lived surrounded by so much love these last thirty-four years.