New and improved Wilson Farmhouse

A beauty!!!!!

The Wilson Farmhouse - the initial visit 07/02/10

The century-old structure, a striking two-storey farmhouse on the shores of Moon River, had cast a spell over me, even before she’d granted me permission to come inside. As a pioneer, she was self-sufficient and strong: she’d nurtured three generations of children, managed a prosperous business, and contributed to her community. A proud lady, indeed. Now, after over a hundred years of watching over Gaunt Bay, she was definitely showing her age: the peeling brown and white paint, like an irritated patch of eczema on her clapboard skin; her windows, either broken, boarded up, or both, as though cataracted into blindness; her covered porch, in desperate need of a shot of Botox to fight her sagging cheekbones. And as for a smile? Wiped off her face years ago when her family just up and left her to die.

I wrenched the dented aluminum door from its silver frame; the window glass rattled against its metal casing while the push-button handle resisted my strength - her attempt to shield me from the dereliction I was about to witness, or perhaps, to stall me a second longer on her sunken cement step to discourage my approach.

Hiding her scars behind a white, painted wooden door, the weathered old soul challenged my efforts to separate her hold from the walls of the house. I cupped the blackened metal doorknob; it surrendered like a limp handshake, too tired and beat down to demonstrate the vigour it once possessed. The door gulped and groaned as its weary hinges expressed their discontent, but open it did. There before me remained the traces of a life scourged by time. The house was cheerless, lowering her eyelids so I could not see into her scorned heart. Not even the summer sunshine could penetrate her sorrow.

I scanned her generous country kitchen where one family, perhaps many, had gathered for bacon and eggs, hot off the griddle; for holiday roasts of beef or pork with mashed potatoes and apple pie; for late night tea and biscuits at the harvest table. All a distant memory.

Her maple cupboards stood violated; their doors splayed wide-open, exposing china teacups with broken handles and dishes cracked in two. A white powder, shaken from its yellow sack on the top shelf, coated the sink and its grey laminate countertop. Drawers once-filled with dish cloths, napkins, and cutlery had been yanked out of their moorings leaving their contents in a helpless state on the grimy floor. Glass serving dishes and aluminum sauce pans sat exposed on Mac-Tacked shelves below the counter. A flour sifter paired with its food-stained cook book, lay orphaned on the kitchen table. And parked at the kitchen window, with its tan-coloured backrest and seat, sat a wheelchair, grieving the goodbye of a dear friend.

I listened for her whispered words, but there were none.

I looked to my left, from the kitchen to the front hallway, where letters and envelopes littered the wooden flooring as if the postman had shoved them through the mail slot without reason. Thank-yous “for a lovely summer visit in the Muskokas” graced most pages. “You two never seem to age,” the writers maintained. Christmas cards stuffed with neatly folded notes delivered wishes for their continued good health. Whispered upon these faded missives were the names, Roy and Edna Wilson, brother and sister, who had devoted their entire lives to 1185 Moon River Road, aging as she aged, in the farmhouse on the bend. I listened again for their whispered words, but mine were all I could hear: Where had they gone? and Why had they left everything behind? Like the white satin clutch purse with its silver chain in which Edna stowed her five-dollar church offerings; like the battered box of black and white photographs of family and friends from Christmases past; like the stash of cash they’d hidden in the corner cupboard of the kitchen (one hundred and eighteen dollars and seventy-three cents to be exact); like the two white, empty, vinyl suitcases positioned beside the gate-leg table at the front door, ready to go… somewhere.

Antique tables, chairs, beds and dressers of oak and walnut occupied every room of the family farmhouse…every room, except the living room, the room where Roy and Edna had endured, within the panelled walls away from the whispered words circling the spaces they couldn’t control. A threadbare brown and red plaid La-Z-Boy warmed Roy’s hips on frigid winter nights in front of the TV. The sofa with its orange and brown faux-leather upholstery became a bed for Edna when the stairs to the second floor were too difficult to climb. The burnt-orange shag carpeting underfoot kept the December chill from entering their bones. Grey woollen work socks filled the deep, lower drawers on the left side of the oak hutch that leaned comfortably against the kitchen and living room walls: Roy’s way of keeping his comforts close and his bunions blessed. Flannelette sheets with mismatched pillow cases filled the deep, lower drawers on the right side of the hutch: Edna’s way of securing a cosy night’s sleep. Strewn across the coffee and side tables were copies of National Geographic’s and Maclean’s: their links to the contemporary world. A green ceramic Christmas tree, the variety with the gumball-coloured lights secured to the tips of each bough, rested on its side beneath the bay window. The ornament, along with every other treasure inside the farmhouse, whispered a soft lament for those without a voice: Bless this home and the memories within it.

The whisperings faded as I sealed the heavy wooden door behind me. Dusk had arrived, soothing the lady’s protective shell into sleep. Before saying goodnight, I snapped her picture; she graciously obliged. In the photograph, just above her rooftop, hovered a cloudy white orb, but it was not the moon. As I stared at the farmhouse, I whispered my own words into her ear: I will return. A warm breeze waved me on my way.

The Wilson Farmhouse - the initial visit