The Search for Sanctuary
After Jack’s careful and lengthy adherence to the best way to grow grass under the shade of a maple tree, we conceded to the grass-eating slugs. In response, I planted an indigenous garden.
The ground covers that did the best were Variegated Goutweed and Lily of the Valley. I chose plants that I knew would propagate–– Winter Creep/Silver Queen, and, a wide variation of Hosta. My Rhododendron managed to bloom, but if more sunlight had found its way through, the colour might have been more effusive. In spots where nothing else thrived, I planted Vina minor, aka, Perry Winkle, also invasive but the petite purple flower delightful. For other colour, I purchased an Astilbe, but it never took. I’ve attempted to grow Astilbe at my cottage and so far I’ve had no better luck. On the other hand, Dutchman’s Breaches, aka Dicentra Cucullaria, with its delicate white bell flower along the tall stem, flourished in the street-side garden.
Thanks to our own two elms and our neighbour’s magnificent pine, our backyard was dappled with sun through shade. We planted more Hosta and Hydrangea and when enough sunshine passed through, sparse blooms on the Lilac were encouraged. A flagstone path assured our yard was dog friendly and low-maintenance perfect. The secluded patch of urban space was home to a wide variety of birds, black and grey squirrels and an active family of racoons. This serene place, my refuge, was my secret garden away from the bustle.
Our Leaside house, constructed in 1921, was one of 68 others built near to the Canada Wire factory. The houses were intended explicitly for the factory workers. According to the longtime and oldest resident on our street, the rust-toned brick were made in the kilns at the Brickworks, the historical quarry off the Bayview Extension across from the Don River. Like I did with the clay-colour brick, I fell in love with the authentic front porch, which became even more perfect with the wicker couch ideal for street gazing.
Similar to many traditional homes in Leaside, ours had a simple charm and when we renovated we were determined to retain that feature. We took on the big project of gutting the house of its plaster and newspaper-filled walls. For headspace, we dug out the basement and at the rear of the house, we added a family room with lots of windows. The creaky oak floors that once appealed to me were replaced with maple. With Jack’s help, my dad, who was an electrician, wired the house to up-to-date standards and when the house turned open concept, sunlight streamed into its heart.
Before and after the renovation this sweet house on a tree-lined and friendly street, was a great space for us. Before aging maples came to their natural end, the small special village of Leaside held an inimitable nuance of relief from the busy streets that surrounded it.
Still something was pulling me away…
The beauty of the Canadian shield and moss-covered rock among pines and strong oak called to me. The liveliness of the rugged landscape drew me in. A simple dream of mine had been to plunk my cross-country skis and poles in a snow bank close to the door. And for comfort, along with a blazing fire in the wood stove, was a snow shovel in the same drift.
Leaside, even with all its quaint history, couldn’t compete with the features of the Canadian shield.
In readiness for the endless amounts of time I imagined having in retirement, I dabbled in creative writing. I was fortunate to cross paths with a new colleague and award winning author who mentioned he held writing courses in his living room. I showed up and brought two friends with me. I attended a Saturday morning writing group at the library. Among these longstanding novelists and poets, I felt intimidated. In Muskoka, there were two writing groups I liked a lot better. One was in Baysville on Wednesday mornings and the other one was on Saturdays in Bracebridge. The Muskoka writing groups were open to newcomers. Not long after I joined MAA, the Muskoka Authors Association, which continues to meet monthly on Thursday evenings. Feeling at home in each of these groups, I organized our trips back and forth from Toronto to the cottage around their meetings. When I was invited to join a critique group of four members, I accepted the offer, and since then we four, who continue to meet, have participated in more than one-hundred meetings and each of us has publish a book in that time.
On the heels of retiring from teaching, I was invited to join the warden team at my church. As the People’s Warden I learned a lot about how a church operates. However, my back-and-forth life between the city and the cottage put me in a position of feeling torn between a commitment to the team and what Jack and I were attempting to sort out together. I remained on the warden team for two years, and when I was invited to consider taking on more responsibility, I listened to my inner voice. Living in “the between” is hard. Being in two places at once might work with effective technology, but I didn’t feel good about my interrupted contribution.
Looking at each other from across the room, with the intention to have yet another circular conversation about downsizing to one property, I said to Jack, “We could rent out our house.”
“I don’t want to be a landlord.”
“I get that. But what if we’re not sure? If we hang on to the house, we could add an entrance to the basement, and then we’ll still have a place for when we come to the city.”
“That’s being a landlord.”
Truth is, I didn’t want to be a landlord either. The idea of overseeing someone else in our house, even if we were living in part of it, was too far from simplification.
When we both retired from our jobs at Seneca College at the same time, our colleagues went out of their way to organize an outstanding party to celebrate our leave-taking. It was the kind of party that was so darn good, it made me wistfully wonder why I felt I could no longer stay.
A few weeks after our party I learned about a call Jack had received from his doctor moments before the party. Jack’s blood tests, done six months earlier, on January 1st, 2014, were conclusive. In that Friday afternoon five-minute phone call, moments before his retirement celebration, Jack learned that he had lung cancer. A detail, because he didn’t want to ruin things for me, he kept to himself.
In the early days of our shared time in retirement, we were in and out of hospitals while Jack underwent a lengthy regime of medical interventions. His rounds of chemo were extensive and after each treatment we headed to the cottage. He curled up on the sofa and slept a lot in front of the burning fire in the wood stove. He coped with chemo and radiation that way. The cottage was a sanctuary away from the clinical busyness of hospitals. At the same time, I was attempting to rescue my sister Jacquelin from spiraling deeper into darkness, and after my mother’s death just before Christmas, I watched over my dad, as stoic as he was. My mother died in December of 2013, I lost my sister in September 2017 and my dad died in February, 2020. Through this time Jack underwent immunotherapy and since then, both of his oncologists have, and continue to refer to him as their Poster Patient. When Jack asked his brain oncologist about what he could expect next, Dr. S said, “I don’t know, Jack. No one else has lived this long,” and when he appeared to catch himself, the doctor and Jack shared a good laugh.
With my father’s peaceful passing and the miracle of Jack’s on-going recovery from 4th Stage Lung Cancer, the conversation about what was next for us had been put on hold, especially since we were uncertain about Jack’s prognosis. The weightiness of the decision to leave Toronto for Muskoka reentered our lives.
The neighbourhood was in flux and demolition and construction was on the rise. More cranes stood on the horizon, road closures increased and horn-blasting traffic ramped up. Is it why we moved? No, not really. We were used to noise and the hustle and bustle of the city never bothered us. And like other structural changes in the city, we figured the fuss of the inconvenience would pass.
I was drawn to live in Muskoka…
We spent a lot of time back and forth on the highway, and when we got to either one of our cozy living places, it didn’t take long to wonder what could wrong at the place where we weren’t. There was no question we wanted to simplify our living arrangement––one residence would cut in half maintenance duties and save a little money too. Next question––would life in Muskoka uphold our need for connection with others? What about friendship? Would there be enough stimulation in Muskoka to sustain our interests. Would we miss the theatre? And what about those great restaurants we were walking to just around the corner? We thought so, and we said, “The city is just a two-hour drive away.” (One-hour and forty-five minutes, tops, if Jack drives.)
Living in the “between” conjured up the reality of being in the constant position of having to say “no” a lot and disappoint, not only myself, but someone else in either of the places. In between generates lack of commitment, which makes it hard to be part of a community.
Our circular conversations were countless, as were lists of pros and cons, followed by a force-field analysis handwritten on envelopes and scraps of paper. Property care and worry about it, was at the top of every list.
“Taking care of two properties is too much work.”
Breaking away is hard to do…
We put our Toronto house on the market, but first we staged. (Something I’d skip, if there’s a next time.)
The house sold in less than a week and once a closing date was set, I called a moving company I’d used many years ago, Three Men and a Truck. To prepare, we did the ultimate purge. Hundreds of books were given away. Some went to the curb and sadly, because the libraries couldn’t take them and the colleges didn’t want them either, most books went into blue bin. Painful to observe and frankly, I don’t want to talk about it.
I packed the whole house and Jack went to the cottage to make room for our city stuff. And when the truck arrived and filled up the cottage and the cabin with our belongings, we realized we hadn’t given enough away. It didn’t take long to come to terms with the fact that the cottage was too small for us and our prized possessions.
“We’ll need another closet.”
“Great. Let’s hire someone.”
Done.
“I need a bathtub.”
“Okay, let’s expand the bathroom. Hire someone.”
Done.
“This kitchen is too small.”
“I agree. Find a designer.”
Done.
We did all that.
“It’s really dark in here. We need more space and we need more light.”
Time to renovate.
I’m not going to elaborate on our nightmare renovation experience. But I will mention that most things didn’t go well or as quickly as anticipated. From previous experience, we knew it was best to move into a rental and once we found landlords on our lake who agreed to let us bring two dogs, we proceeded to pack. Over the duration of our renovation, we moved five times. Most of this happened during Covid and Jack was unwell, not only from Covid, but from being cold and sad and from missing the consistencies of what he was used to having.
We’re back in our renovated cottage now. We love the design. We’ve got space and we’ve got light. Wood is burning in the stove and as I write and my new girl puppy, Bailey, is at my feet.
In the duration of the moves and renovation, Jack’s hearing impairment has worsened. His new doctor in Muskoka comes into the office one day a week, which makes getting appointments for referrals difficult. We’re on a new phase of our shared journey together, something I’ll likely write about later.
Our move to Muskoka from a much-loved home and neighbourhood in Toronto, has had its ups and downs. I’ve joined a community choir, the Y, and I play pickleball once or twice a week. I have found likeminded people with whom I walk, talk and play. I help out at Hope Chest, which is a clothing program facilitated by the Anglican Church. I joined the church, but admittedly I haven’t been getting there much. (A story for another time.) I did join Probus, and a year later, Jack did too. But like it is for others who have a hearing impairment, it’s difficult for him to hear in a crowd. Acquiring a hearing impairment is life changing. I’ll write about this later too.
Jack may not have recognized the abnormality of all of the different aspects of the move. To figure out the where and what to do next, we’re having open and honest conversations.
Place shapes experience. So does time and temporality. Relationships are essential and sustaining them requires tender loving care and lots of acceptance of another person’s perspective. This includes healthy listening and hashing things out. Are we doing our best? You bet.
Still looking for the light.
Beverley Brewer
