Moving up to Park Place

In my Grade six year, spring break came in fresh green lawns and far-too-bright blue skies. Maybe this was the first time that I noticed that the world sometimes was just too bright for me to stand it. A normal amount of spring or summer sunshine would have me squinting painfully, barely able to keep my eyes more than just a tiny bit open, as they teared up like mad. It was very painful, and every so often as I got older, I endured it without understanding it. Sunglasses helped a little, but not enough. In my recent adulthood, I’ve been told that this light sensitivity is actually a form of migraine. Mum also got migraines I learned later. Who knew?

Sunny_Park_PlaceI remember an especially bright sunny day when Dad drove me and Kim south up Arlington Street, away from Kingsway and away from the Peacock Court Motel. Dad wanted us to have a look at the new townhouse that he’d rented for us. We were finally going to move out of the dumpy old motel, into a newer, bigger and better place!

(Once again, I cannot remember my Mother being with us on this trip. Where was she? At home in the motel, or somewhere else?)

This is the lane that led down past our unit, #121 in Park Place.

After almost two years of damp and uncertain motel living, Park Place was like being on another planet. Goodbye moldy doors and drafty floors. No more rats scooting around in the ceiling or mice under the stove, or slugs crawling up the front door, no more discarded furniture in the back lane, and most of all, no more cramped living quarters, and no more us kids sharing beds with our parents.

The development was a few years old, and was called Park Place (probably for its proximity to Burnaby’s large Central Park which was only one block away). It’s still located on 49th avenue in East Vancouver, near the municipal boundary with Burnaby. It’s about as east as you can get in East Vancouver.

To me, Park Place was a vast improvement on the scuzzy, dodgy motels we’d been living in over the past couple of years. It was just so bright, clean-smelling, dry, and modern. It was a relatively-new three bedroom townhouse that had previously been occupied by a lady named Kathy Kronk, whom Dad informed me was a police officer. I’d noticed that Dad liked female cops, or more particularly, strong women who were straight-forward in their opinions and took no crap. Occasionally, mail addressed to Kathy Kronk still came through the door slot.

Our unit was number 121, located near the back of the complex and shielded by rows of trees. It was significantly quieter and greener than our last home. It felt very peaceful.

The ground floor contained the living room and kitchen/dining area. All the walls were painted white, except for the wall at the end of the living room, which was covered in a gold metallic wallpaper patterned with felt white flower shapes. The living room floor was a low-pile Lego-green carpet, and in the kitchen all the appliances were in harvest gold. On the upstairs level were three bedrooms and a bathroom – same carpet and wall colour. There was a large unfinished basement as well. Looking back, this was our equivalent to row-housing, like I’d seen when watching “Coronation Street” with my grandfather, years earlier. We were middle-class, or maybe lower-middle-class, but it felt pretty rich to me.

The moment that Dad opened the front door, Kim and I raced upstairs to each claim our very own bedrooms. We hadn’t had our own bedrooms for over three years – not since the trailer out in Langley. It all smelled freshly cleaned and painted. It was by far the nicest and newest place I’d ever lived in.

After we moved in, we had a full basement, so a lot of things finally came out of storage. Here’s the inventory in our basement:

  • A hardwood dining table big enough for eight. (We never used it.)
  • A large oil painting (at least six feet wide) of a rough-faced man wearing a captain’s hat and a Cowichan sweater. (I never knew who the man was, but I think he’d been an acquaintance of my Mum, and maybe someone whom Dad didn’t appreciate.)
  • A large dresser with 5 foot high mirror.
  • Poppy’s tall four-drawer dresser, and wooden foot locker, filled inches deep with unsorted photographs, rolls of film, envelopes, and fifty-year-old cameras and other equipment. (I inherited the dresser later. It’s gotta be at least from the ’20s or ’30s.)
  • A blue brass and steel captain’s chest with a broken lock, containing carefully-folded old clothes, photos and envelopes. (Everything in it smelled dusty or musty.)
  • 50 cardboard boxes of varying sizes, piled up against the cement wall. All of these must have come from Poppy’s basement to ours. In the 7 years we lived there, we never unpacked one of them, and to this day I have no idea what was in any of them. I also have no idea what happened to them when we moved out, but I assume everything was sold off or junked.
  • Various end-tables or tall floor lamps, which we probably also inherited from Poppy’s house.
  • A dusty pile of laundry about three feet high that never got washed and never got smaller. (Our cat Velvet laid in it when he was feeling sick, not long before Dad had him put down.)
  • An old chrome-trimmed kitchen table in the corner, which I used to build some model airplanes and a model truck.
  • Poppy’s apartment-sized washer and dryer, with which we did occasionally do our laundry.

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The memoir and family history of E. John Love