Every day I see something new in this city. Today's walk took me down Cambie Street to the Cambie Street Bridge that crosses over to Yaletown. Enroute I spotted these beautiful horses.
They were waiting patiently while their attendant officer finished her telephone call. I couldn't help but wonder how many extra-curricular calls they had listened to in their years with the police force.
Earlier in the day, we drove past the house that my father built in 1952-53. Generations of my mother's family had never owned a home. My father, growing up in an orphanage, never expected to own a home. This small bungalow was built with love and a hefty mortgage. The walls were plaster, not drywall. The floors were hardwood, not laminate. The living room ceiling was coved. There were two "piano windows" in the pianoless living room. Six of us lived in this two bedroom, one bathroom home which later included a basement suite for my grandparents. We cooked, ate, laundered, ironed, studied, discussed & entertained in the kitchen. There was no dining room. On Sundays we shared a roast beef dinner(overcooked) with yorkshire pudding and cabbage(overcooked).
When my grandparents moved into the basement suite, grandad took on the job of ensuring that neighbourhood kids didn't play on the small hill at the front of the house. He would stand watch at his bedroom window for the ones who were brave enough to test his wrath by rolling down the slope.
Many wonderful memories are held within the walls of this simple home.