Memories and perceptions in one's youth are so formative and enduring. The cherry cake the neighbours served at a party, which later made me quite ill, has nurtured in me a dislike of the little red fruit to this day. The rock music my parents played around the house in my earliest years still hits my ear with fond familiarity, despite having long developed my own musical tastes. And the places I visited throughout my childhood are now blanketed in an impression, formed from fragmented memories, images, smells and sounds. My aunt's house, a place visited in sporatic, whirlwind stays, was blanketed in . . . magic.To my little girl eyes, it was a house surrounded by both wonder and mystery. An old gray stone victorian in Montreal's downtown made it exciting regardless of it's inside. Yet it was the inside, with it's trove of treasures that made me so eager to be a part of mom's journeys there. I anticipated visits with both excitement, and anxiety. Excitement because my aunt's was a study in clustered collections and colourful curiosities. Nothing was off limits. We were permitted to explore, and touch. Shelves lined with little bobbles. Petrushka dolls waiting to be opened. An old gumball machine, that, though brimming with coloured balls when we were kids, became mysteriously empty once we hit teenagehood. Large hanging plants, top lit by beautiful skilights. Skittery cats, creeping out from under beds and behind desk chairs. Mexican morraca's and tambourines. A basketball net by the entry. High, molded ceilings which made me feel so small. Walls covered in precious scraps; old pictures, cherished notes and cards, news articles. And books. Soooooo many books. And not just boring old books with no pictures, but coffee table books made to catch the eye with deliciously vivid photography. This is a place where there is room for everything, and all things are given room.
Any anxiety I felt over impending visits came from an awareness that her's was an adult house. One were little people rarely trespassed, thus making it feel a little alien to me and my siblings. It held things which, though benign to adults with their muted imaginations, became horrifying after a bit of childish meditation under the cover of darkness. I remember a poster of a cherub who's notched arrow was pointed out at the room. When our beds were made up on the floor that night, I didn't want to take my eyes off that arrow lest it be loosed on us. A wrought iron mask that had been implanted in a wicker vase full of pennies was removed after I had nightmares over it, and refused to even pass it by. An adult would see it for what it was; molded metal, but to a child it was a demon, waiting to pounce on penny-thieves. And let me impress upon you the necessity of retrieving said pennies, as they were much needed in the gumball machine upstairs.
Now, as an adult in an adult house everything has become familiar, rather than enticingly exoctic. I realize now that much of what I see in my aunt's home has been collected in love over many years. I once took it all for granted, but I know now that it was gathered bit by precious bit. Nothing truly valuable in and of itself, but each item holding a memory, and a story. And it is this that has affected me. I have come to see that houses with character are the ones I enter and never want to leave because it feels like they have introduced themselves to me and want me to stay. Houses filled with expensive items, isolated and untouchable leave no impression at all. Or if they do, it is this: come in if you must, but don't touch, and don't stay long. If we have to live in houses on this earth, shouldn't they be welcoming? Welcome . . .
