I grew up in a house in Vancouver that my father claimed to be nearly a hundred years old.But if your thinking with your minds-eye-and conjuring up a lovely heritage home? allow me to say, "chortles," it wasn't.Not that it was an ugly home, just that it didn't have the unique elements that you see in older homes.
I've never once believed dad that our home was THAT old.Even now I speculate, however, perhaps it had changed throughout the years before my parent's bought it-one wouldn't know-least I don't.All I know is our home was encased in stucco, not of the plain white look but of colored glass, which I remember being embarrassed of.Now however? "hm.." my thought of it is of particular beauty-the sun would shine through the millions of shards of tiny glass along the skirts of the house, making it one of the more unique looking houses on a hill over looking the city.
I think my parent's bought the home for $15,000-nothing these days.When the Vancouver realistate market started to sputter to life, right in the beginning? my parent's sold our old house for over $200,000-which is peanuts these days, being that the house now could probably fetch half a million.
Dad always said the house would be torn down-the value of the property was worth more.I suppose in the years to come he was right.And in hindsight? it wasn't a bad home, it was a lovely home that bared many good memories throughout my childhood.In fact? a doctor bought it and never tore it down.
Anyways, the object of this post was inspired from an old blog post I had done on an artist (painter)It reminded me of my own days of painting.
I had an attic bedroom that was led up by an old narrow staircase with each step painted pink with black-hard-plastic-non-skid nailed to each step.When my parent's first bought the house the attic was one open room with sloped ceilings.My father then created two separate rooms for my older brother and I.Luckily for me I was given the larger room.I suspect at the age of four they figured I'd acquire a lot of things and would need room to play, even though I never really played up there but hauled my Barbie van and motor home with barbie dolls spilling out, downstairs to the small living room of dark-wood paneling.
I liked my bedroom by day however, but by night my sensitive, wild imagination would take hold.My mom would allow me to fall asleep in her bed on the main floor early in the evening and they'd carry me up stairs to my bedroom, until? well, until the last I remember one of them uttering that I was getting to heavy.After that I remember sitting about four steps up in the smallest of glow from the living room-scared to go to bed.
The years would change me as would my bedroom, thus being the reason of this blog post.
You see? into my teens I painted my bedroom blue, paint from which I found in the basement among dad's things.I remember my father grumbling to leave my room alone-god only knows I changed my room throughout the years more times than a season or two of HGTV.Perhaps I should have ended up an interior designer, not a casual blogger and hopeful published author of...whatever fleeting story (chortles...).
The thing is, before I painted my attic-bedroom a bold jet of blue, it was a lovely pink.
While I was away from home one weekend as a child visiting friends, my parent's snuck in my room and splashed pink and white all throughout.I'll not ever forget coming home and being so dazzled and lucky.My slanted walls were of chains of pink roses, and my floor was of a rich pink with white swirls, just the thing a young girl would love.And I did! until I became a teenager and pained my room a jet blue and decided? to....."ahem," paint a fairly large mural of a naked cowboy with chaps and a cowboy hat!
I wished I had taken a photo of it to show here! it was pretty good! I'm not sure what my parents thought of it, they never really went into my room, but I know mom knew, she said little, most likely she had a good laugh over coffee with friends.Mom was like that.She was strict but quiet when it came to things or mistakes I've done.It used to freak me out.
And so, with the recent thought of the old post I'd made about an artist and her paintings, I was reminded of the naked cowboy on my bedroom wall, all those years ago living in Vancouver.Then? I was reminded of my mother and I walking one day up at the lake here and her asking out of the blue (no pun intended) that if I remembered the time I painted "that mural? of-that-naked-cowboy-in-chaps-and-a-cowboy-hat?"
God! it makes me laugh now in thought.Both mom and I had a good chuckle that day walking.