Unposted Remembrances

I realized today that I want to write and file things conveniently that are perhaps not of general interest though some family members might like the memories.  And so this page:

August 23  Buy land, they don’t make it anymore

I remember my Grandparent’s home in Oakville.  400 4th Line was a generously sized three bedroom bungalow. Nice kitchen with a window over the sink and a second window over the breakfast nook. There was a dining room with glass shelves for knick-knacks and a spacious living room with a larger than average deep-ledged picture window. Grand-dad’s chair sat in the corner farthest from the dining room kitty-corner from the T.V. My parents didn’t own one, but at Grand-dad’s  I was privileged to watch Captain Kangaroo and Romper Room, one eye patched, to strengthen a wandering eye. As a child you could repeatedly, until it got on some adult’s nerves,  navigate a square- from the kitchen down the back hall past the den, and the bathroom, across the end of the house where the hall gave off to two bedrooms, back through the living room to the dining room to the kitchen.

Perhaps the best part was the fact that Grand-dad’s house had “land”- a large front lawn sloping down to 4th Line in the front and a backyard that seemed to stretch to infinity in the back.  It had black currant bushes, rows of raspberries, apple trees, and a section for vegetable garden, screened top and sides against the inroads of rabbits.  Across the 4th Line at the front was what could only be described as an estate- a large stone house half-hidden in the left-hand section and then large gracious lawns extending five times further.

My memories are, I think, focused to the few months we lived with my grand-parents when I was five and six, during the times I was admitted to Sick Children’s Hospital in Toronto for squint repairs and after our family evacuated from the Belgian Congo at the time of Independence.

The house remained in the family until after my high school years and we made irregular visits there, coming back from the Trucial States, or driving across the wind-blown prairies and then past miles of rocks and trees around the misty Lake head,  first from Manitoba and then from Alberta as our family relocated in Canada, but moved progressively further west.  “My parents aren’t getting any younger,” Mom would say before each pilgrimage.

At some point the house was sold to finance my grandparents’ failing years. They moved to “The Manor,” a rather optimistically named senior care establishment-necessary, but indubitably hospitally in flavour.

The gracious estate across the way fell into the hands of developers  and was subdivided into a number of suburban plots, so that they could build large houses on postage stamps of land. I haven’t passed that way in years.  It’s hard to believe that my Grandfather’s side of the road hasn’t suffered similar insults, falling prey to the burgeoning demands of extended Toronto.



  1. A. Lurkar said

    regarding rememberances:

    • adisasullivan said

      Speaking of that empty package of pavarotti . . . .

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