I love to walk. Yes very much so. I have walked almost the entire length of this town at least a hundred times.
One can reach such a number when they have lived in a town on and off for more than twenty years.
I usually never go to the newer part of town because my dislike for modern looking buildings reaches the point of disgust, so in order to spare myself from beholding such eye-sores I avoid them entirely and walk within the old part of town where buildings still have some character because they were built in an age where aesthetics was still appreciated.
Now when I walk as I mentioned here I walk in the older part of town and I haunt certain streets and shops that hold a special air…or atmosphere as some may say. I could quite literally spend the day roaming one particular street, walking up and down it just to enjoy the ambience of the place, however I avoid such behaviour as I find people who live on the street might find it unnerving seeing someone stalk up and down the road they live and call the Police on me…therefore I have to resort to relishing every moment I am on a particular street I love.
There is this one street in which I have forgotten its name…perhaps I have never known its name as I am not in the habit of observing which street I am on. I have lived here all my life and I know this place like a map…I don’t need petty things like names of streets to know where I am going;
This street however…is my favourite street because the entire length of it is littered with houses that hail from the Victorian and Georgian era.
Some of its houses are grand houses with massive porches and multi-leveled buildings with at least eight bedrooms with fire-places in everyone. The entire mansion is a statement of rank, wealth and power and I imagine its original owners must have been some sort of tradesman or held some important office in this town like Mayor or something because from the looks of these liveable blocks of art they were certainly not farmers.
There are however on this same street more modest homes that are only one level, rather short (compared to modern homes) made of a reddish brick that is now decaying from its years of wear and tear from harsh Canadian winters. People who dwell in them now make them as cozy as possible and as you pass you sometimes see a lonely flower-pot or a child’s toy in the window. I laugh to myself sometimes when I pass these houses because it occurs to me that humanity over time has changed very little and very likely when that house stood brand new a Century ago the very same objects would be looking out the window…a lonely flower-pot and a child’s toy.
Now the further I wander up this unnamed road there are many of these single floor houses. I have gone past them many time trying to make out wither or not any of them actually have any separate rooms at all because from the outside it doesn’t look like it. I can really imagine that if you entered one of these old red brick homes you would find one large room with maybe a fire-place stuck in the corner somewhere and that is that…no more and no less. I have passed these houses and stopped deliberately trying to think “where would the kitchen be…is there a kitchen at all? What about bedrooms…are there any bedrooms? Where would you put the bedrooms and etc…etc…”
The one major question that keeps playing on my mind and maybe one very important question for the people who are living inside it…is that does that one room house have any other supporting walls inside of it or are the brick walls outside the only bones this old house has? If that is the case it seems clear to me that a person should maybe get the foundation of the place checked out because it seems to me after a certain number of years the brick would decay and the house would be at risk at falling down around me. I doubt many people consider that though because it seems most people don’t consider things like that and those who do are called “paranoid” when in fact its only a logical thought!
Anyways along I go down this road with no name…and I come to this particular (or should I say peculiar) green house. Yes, you read right…its a green house and not a nice colour green but that awful olive green that sprung up in popularity during the 1970’s when I suppose people were imaging they were in ancient Greece during a trip on LSD. And to make matters worse the shutters and doors are painted a pale baby yellow which makes the house look even more horrible.
What strikes me about this house is actually not its awful colour but the fact that it is abnormally flat and again looks as if it only consists of one large room. Although it could contain two large bedrooms or three little ones but I don’t know where one would put them because this house is one level (like the others are) and it just would seem odd to add a bedroom inside one massively large, flat room.
The windows of this building are no better (or prettier) in fact it only adds to the ugliness of this atrocity. First of all the house has too many of them (windows I mean) and they are not normal looking windows but they are long and narrow and stretched across the entire length of the house like a collection of those mirrors you find at amusement parks. I’d hate to have to replace one! I can imagine the man coming to inspect them…I’m sure he’d ask whose school art project this house was.
The windows are not the most absurd feature of this house though…oh no…it gets even worse! Because as you examine this house and raise your eyes a bit to its roof you will find a small look-out that looks like an after-thought of whatever nut-case was responsible for building this house! He must have been a retired Sailor who wished to re-create the birds nest he once had on his ship!
The look-out (or whatever you’d call it) as you can imagine is painted baby yellow and you guessed it has plenty of narrow windows to look out of while you’re up there for whatever insane reason you have for being so. You can see this look-out even before you can see the house because you can’t help it…you’re casually wandering along minding your business until it hits you like a ton of bricks and you can’t tear your eyes away from it because it looks so odd especially when its attached to an already ugly little house.
This house sits right in the middle of a crooked four way stop where your chances of being hit by a passing vehicle is very high, you want to watch for oncoming cars and must tear your attention away from the atrocity that beholds you in order for you to get onto the other side alive and intact. I have done this many times and when I read the other side of the street and stand before this building…I tell it to its face that it is a very homely house and then my mind wanders and I question how one would get to this look-out, because as far as I can see there is no access to it from the outside. Which means there must be an access to it inside and what an access it must look like! What would it be? A staircase going to nowhere in the middle of the room? A latter leaned up to the edge of it? A rope hanging there to climb up? What access could there possibly be that wouldn’t look utterly stupid to a person visiting the house?
Here is a situation (a perfectly fictional one but one that could happen in this house)
A visitor (or someone) comes in unexpectedly thinking its a bungalow they have just entered and suddenly they bump into a random, floating stairwell in the middle of the parlour leading up to a perfectly silly, useless, window filled abomination that has no place to sit down or even stand up in.
There’s another thought that never occurred to me before…Where do you stand? Do you merely climb up your stairwell (or whatever you use to access the bloody thing) and balance yourself on that while eye-balling whatever it is you could eye-ball just as well out those dozens of narrow windows you have there! Insane. The house is perfectly insane. You’ll never sell it because its just to insane to sell!
I know this is a silly little story here but I had to write it because that is what I always think when I pass this house for the house itself is real and not a figment of my imagination. Believe me the truth is stranger than fiction!
written by Aubrae Bronach all rights reserved.