When I was in about grade six, we visited my grandpa, Poppy, in Victoria. He’d recently had to move out of his house, a duplex he’d lived in for a dozen years or more. I suppose the owner had sold the house and land, a nice big lot right on the corner of Cook Street and Rockland Avenue. A year later, it would be a three or four story apartment building. 

Poppy had moved into a one bedroom apartment right across the street, kitty corner from his old home. It was very sad to see how the white picket fence in the front yard had been knocked down by a drunk driver, and how the lawn that he used to mow each Sunday had grown almost half a foot high. It couldn’t have been an easy transition for him. Now, at about 77, he’d finally retired from managing the Hotel Yates downtown and had to give up his old home too.

Up in Poppy’s new flat, I recognized some of his furniture and admired his hardwood floor, which reminded me of the floors in his old house, where I’d laid to colour or read the newspaper funnies just a couple of years earlier. I missed his old house. He’d really lost some things, and I think it weighed on him.

Mum’s voice became raised and some kind of argument began between her and her Dad. Whatever it was, they weren’t happy. I hated hearing arguments and raised voices. It really wasn’t a happy visit for us. Maybe Mum was upset that her old familiar home was gone too.

I walked downstairs to the street, longing for peace and quiet on my own. Standing on the sidewalk at the end of the building’s walkway, I felt self conscious wearing my shirt and sweater and long pants. Kim and I were a bit dressed-up to visit Poppy, but I felt too dressed up for the neighbourhood. Victoria felt both familiar and strange now, like it wasn’t my home anymore. I realized that I was missing Vancouver and my blue jeans.

I walked towards the curb to get under the shade of a big old tree, and looked up and down the street. In many ways, the neighbourhood was still the same: the sound of traffic and the smells of car exhaust still mingled with the sounds of kids playing, and the aroma of someone else’s freshly-cut lawn. It wasn’t noisy, but just a gentle, lightly-occupied afternoon, with a few cars here and there.

Heading away from Cook Street, Rockland Avenue became a steep hill that seemed to go uphill forever. I remembered that near the top of the hill was a slightly nicer neighbourhood, featuring Government House, a grand old manor surrounded by lush rose gardens and wide lawns. It was the official residence of British Royalty whenever they visited Victoria.

A few years earlier, me, my sister, and a chum had walked up that hill, wanting to see those rose gardens and maybe even a queen (because we were imaginative little 8 and 9 year old kids). We did make it all the way up to Government House, where we wandered the grounds a little, saw some pretty flowers, got bored and tired, and finally went back down the hill to home for our dinner.

I was remembering this little adventure as I noticed a long black open-top car drive silently down Rockland. It turned onto Cook and glided right past me and Poppy’s apartment. A tall gentleman in a black suit sat alone in the back seat. I thought he looked like Prince Phillip, but it couldn’t have been him.