The old house is gone but not forgotten

I bought my first house when I was 33 years old, as soon as I crawled out from under my student debt.

I could not believe my good fortune when I went to view the old two-storey — it had everything I ever wanted. It was detached, circa 1909, and still retained some of its original charm. Sheathed in cedar clapboard painted yellow, it had forest green trim with burgundy shutters. It even had decorative corbels on the front eave, a wooden mailbox that was a miniature version of the house itself, plus a pocket-square-sized front garden surrounded by a dark green picket fence.

It was situated on a narrow, tree-lined lane in my favourite part of St. John’s, a neighbourhood whose oldest streets are graced with stately mansions whose interiors and amenities I could only fantasize about.

It was love at first sight. That there was an actual house I could afford within a stone’s throw of those heritage homes and Signal Hill was astonishing to me. I figured the fact that the house was yellow — the same colour as my childhood home — was a good omen.

“Sold!” I told the real estate agent, even before I’d had the place inspected.

The downstairs layout was awkward, with the living room and kitchen both left off the main hall, separated by a wall that made entertaining a stilted production. None of the rooms were squares or rectangles, but rather trapezoids and rhombuses. My good friend, who favours the clean lines of artists like Christopher Pratt, was not impressed. “I’ll never spend a night here,” she said.

I was undeterred. I could see its charms quite clearly — the old Edwardian-era brick fireplace, built big enough for a scuttle of coal but which burned a fire log quite nicely. The forest green clawfoot bathtub upstairs. The fine dentil moulding on the mantelpiece in my bedroom.

I tried valiantly to turn the galley-sized, shady backyard into a garden, augmenting the dark black clay with bales of peat moss. I planted it with Sweet William (in honour of my little dog, Willie) and other slips of perennials given to me by neighbours and friends.

The front yard, which caught the sun, fared better, and I lovingly tended the roses and rhododendrons and white irises that previous owners had bequeathed me.

But my tender, loving care was no match for the practical needs of the place. In addition to the flaws pointed out in the inspection report, new warts appeared. The crawl space would flood in heavy rains. The house itself swayed like a drunken sailor in high winds. A great swath of damp and rot was discovered in one outer wall after I had saved enough money to have the peeling house painted. Deck boards were getting soft. The flat, tarred roof sprung a leak.

And one night, when a gale force wind whipped the house with particular ferocity, it snapped a shutter in two and left the loose part slapping against the clapboard, each crack a staccato message to my brain: “This house needs more than you can afford to give it.”

Soon after, I met the man who would become my husband, and he had children, so when we were ready to cohabitate, the idea of renovating his larger house was more plausible than trying to hang on to mine.

And so, after eight years of loving that old house — eight years of family gatherings, dinners with friends, romance and heartache, anxious nights, grief and joy — I bid it a bittersweet adieu. Watching the real estate agent put a lockbox on the front door handle as I walked away for the last time, I felt a sense of wistfulness for what might have been.

I still love to walk in my old neighbourhood, and when a friend and I were there recently, a neighbour told us that my old house — which has been completely rebuilt — is now an Airbnb.

When I searched for it online, thinking perhaps my husband and I could rent it for a night for nostalgia’s sake, I discovered it’s not an Airbnb but a long-term luxury rental that is completely unrecognizable to me. Walls have been removed, and the open-concept space now has a modern linear fireplace. My dank little back garden has been replaced with terraced decking. The picket-fenced front yard is a paved parking space.

But I still dream of the old house — surprisingly often — 20 years later. I conjure up younger versions of my husband and me, drinking wine in front of the fire, or of sweet Willie curled up at the foot of my bed.

The memories of treasured places, like people, stay with us always if we’re lucky, and my dreams are small gifts, preserving my house the way it was.

Pam Frampton lives in St. John’s. Email pamelajframpton@gmail.com | X: @Pam_Frampton | Bluesky: @pamframpton.bsky.social