Standing on the corner of Yeomans and Benjamin Streets, in Belleville, Ontario, the house was a grand fixture for many years. It was designated a heritage home, Victorian, with gables on the roof peaks, wooden shutters, and 2 large bay windows that defined the beauty of its glory days.
There was a front door on one side that led to a narrow hallway, but everyone used the preferred entrance through the enclosed porch to the kitchen.
There were rose gardens, rows of tomato plants, a hen house, a duck pond and raspberry bushes for the picking. It was home to my father, growing up, and shared with his brother, and parents.
I loved that old house.
The home was intriguing. The intricate woodwork, latticing inside to separate areas of rooms, the large kitchen, and the separate back kitchen where my grandmother did the preparation work for cooking.
The old-fashioned kitchen was the place for big dinners, and to chat with people who came in for a visit. It was the centre of activity and the way to the rest of the house.
I can still picture myself exploring room to room, discovering, and forming memories. There was so much history. I don’t even need to close my eyes. I still see the crab-apple tree out from the side door, and the rows of raspberries my grandmother picked every year to make jam. The locals came every summer to buy her jam-it was delicious. We often ‘helped’ with the raspberry picking–at least we helped to eat the juicy berries and then ran off to play.
One fascination for my brother and I was the root cellar, deep underground and accessible only from the outside. I was allowed down only once. Cool and silent, with no outside sounds heard, it was an eerie place. Yet, it served well to keep the vegetables and fruit from the garden.
On the inside of the house one of my favourite spots to sit was on a rocking chair beside one of the bay windows. It was a sunny area, facing out into the side garden and the perfect place to bring a book. The rocking chair was my place. I would sit and read, rock and dream.
As my parents aged, and after my uncle who had lived there went into a retirement home, the home was sold. It was sad to see the house leave our hands and then torn down to make way for new homes to be built.
But time moves on and the house had needed too many repairs to make it practical to keep. But the photographs and memories linger on.
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