The neighbours, living and dead

The homes in this area are immaculately kept. It may be a small village, but it is by no means money-less or rundown. The yards are all expansive with massive trees, close-mown lawns in the cool shade (I think lawns are competitive here), several with greenhouses and vegetable gardens. One house in particular is a delight to walk past, because it has the ideal yard for children. A swing set, a trampoline, a playhouse with a chalkboard in it, Tonka trucks in the dirt beneath the trees, a horseshoe pitch---the kids who had to quarantine and home-school there are lucky. I pity the kids stuck in airless apartments in the city, where playgrounds and pools are off limits and you’re fined if you go to the park. In spite of Covid, the campground at the conservation area is packed with RVs, and while the playground is roped off with yellow tape, kids line the lake with fishing rods in hand. 

The neighbours, whom I will call B and T, came over to introduce themselves. They were the penultimate owners of the church, the ones who first bought it at auction when it closed in 2012. They informed us that we would have to get an environmental study ($15,000) before we could get the place rezoned residential. Oh, and apparently we’re on conservation land, too. Someone else tried to buy the place before us but gave up in despair when the place “didn’t pass” the Phase One environmental study. 

B and T kindly lent me a book a local historian compiled about the church, full of its history and photos and even recipes (including Doris Tanton’s famous butterscotch pie that everyone praised at the annual fall suppers). I took it home to read, and stumbled across a little, teeny sentence near the end that casually mentioned there used to be an underground oil tank but it leaked. Oh joy. So now we really won’t pass the environmental study. Hubby and I started discussing other possible uses for the church besides residential, and we contacted our lawyer to see what our options were. We’re in love with the place, but it’s starting to look like a money pit. The real estate agent should have disclosed a few things he didn’t.

The butterscotch pie recipe turned out good, though. 

And it turns out the golden-bricked house with the elderly woman used to be the church manse. 

Next weekend. I returned the book to T and thanked him for the loan. Chatted briefly. Asked him how to contact the historian, Mary, who wrote the book. And asked whether anyone in the neighbourhood mows lawns. He very nicely offered to mow the lawn for me, and also told me to call ahead in the winter when we were coming down and he’d plow out a spot in the snow for us to park. Isn’t that nice? I’d forgotten how kind small towns can be. 

While my husband went to Home Hardware, I walked down the road with Brio to locate the house of Mary. I intended to just introduce myself and ask her if she had any of the books available, as I wanted a copy for myself. But when I told her who I was, she called her husband and we ended up sitting on the lawn in the shade on plastic chairs, yacking for over an hour, while Brio lay contentedly by my feet. Paul and Mary (we just need a Peter) are very sweet, intelligent, and interesting people. They’re probably in their late 60s or early 70s and seem to be quite well-read and involved in life. They were able to confirm for me that the “underground” oil tank was actually “below ground,” in the basement, and was removed when it was replaced by the outdoor tank. So any spill was in the building, not the soil, so there’s hope of passing the environmental study. Yay! And Mary told me those close-set kitchen shelves that puzzled me so much were for holding the 100 pies that people brought for the big fall suppers. Oh! That makes perfect sense. There is something thrilling about owning pie shelves that will hold 100 pies. The lined/insulated box in the laundry room is not, as I thought, an ice box, but a warming box to hold the 600 pounds of turkey people cooked and brought to the dinner, as well. When I told Mary I’d recreated the butterscotch pie recipe, she was excited, and very happy to hear we intend to bring the food and music back to the church. I want to line those pie shelves with buttertarts.

Mary was visibly relieved to hear we intend to keep the building as much like a church as possible and not lose its flavour in renovating. She thinks the community would welcome a meditation and yoga centre. They were also happy when I said we’ll restore the windows. Paul told me the plastic over the windows was meant to be removed every spring, like storm windows, not left on all summer. Failing to remove it is what caused the deterioration of the windows. I guess when the church was sold in 2012, no one bothered removing the plastic every year anymore. I mentioned I attended the United Church’s Emmanuel College School of Theology at the U of T (doesn’t hurt to throw that tidbit in!). They feel like friends already. 

They told me interesting things about the local township and what families are still left in the area. They have lived here 50 years, and Paul’s father lived just a few blocks away and used to run the now-dilapidated general store. They suggested I contact the United Church Archives in Toronto for the stewards’ minutes, which were sent to the archives when the church closed (great idea!). And I managed to acquire a copy of the history book for my own. We exchanged contact info and I promised to bring my husband by next time to meet them. They said they like the bagpipes---his mother was a McLachlan---so maybe my husband could play for them. Great people to talk to. Next time I come, I will bring one of my books for Mary. 

Each of our stained glass windows is dedicated in memory of someone from the community, so I wrote all the names down and looked them up on Ancestry.ca to learn more about them. Many are buried in the local cemetery, so I walked down to explore that too. It makes a difference, somehow, knowing that the woman whose window is over the altar died young of ulcerative cholitis. And that the man in the far window had three wives (successively) but his neighbours only knew about two of them. Some of their descendants still live in the area. The window I'm currently restoring is dedicated to Margaret Morris, and I find myself referring to the window by name and calling it "her." Talking to Margaret a little as I work. There, there, this won't hurt a bit, honey. You'll feel so much better when this is all straightened out. I can't promise perfection, but I'll do my best for you, dear.