The message from my sister was pretty straightforward: "Nana's house."
Probably some fun pic from back in the day, I thought.
How wrong I was.
It was a link to some photos after that had provided so many wonderful memories for the vast majority of my life.
Even though it's been years since both of my maternal grandparents had passed away, the house, in Victoria, was still always theirs. To me anyway.
In more recent years, I'd occasionally drive by if I was in town, wondering who lived there now and noting a change in paint colour or the addition of a porch, but was always immediately transported back to the way it looked for decades and decades as Nana and Gramps raised three children and later blessed the lives of many grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
Now, I don't think I want to swing by.
My own son, now an adult himself, would always let me know "I drove by Nana's house today" if he was in the neighbourhood and I'd ask a million questions and regale him with tales he was too young to remember or were before his time.
"Remember that time in the Jeep?" I'd start.
"No, Dad. I was two."
Nana would always try to give him some money (in addition to the endless array of treats) when we left after a visit. I'd say "Nan, he's two, he doesn't need it."
She'd wink at him and say "OK, dear."
Then we'd start driving home and I'd hear "Daddy, look!" from the carseat in the back and he'd be waving a $50 bill and gleefully telling me "Nana said get candy."
Now, "I drove past Nana's house today" meant he took some pictures of the house boarded up in the aftermath of the blaze. It's still hard to fathom. Fortunately, reports indicate the folks who were now living in the house suffered "no lingering injuries", which is the most important thing at this point.
But I have to say, seeing the house, and especially the way Gramps's garage (his man cave before they were called that) was totally destroyed, is leaving some lingering injuries to my thought process.
The house on Doncaster Drive was a magical place. It didn't matter how old and gnarled up you may have been yourself at any given point, you were immediately surrounded by love, comfort, happiness and an array of British confections.
I can still easily picture every square inch, inside and out, of that tiny home. The colour of the carpet, the wood panelling on the walls, the pictures in the same place for 40 years. The 'This is it, the Loo' signs on the bathroom door and so many more.
But the real magic came with the stories. I started to write a few down, but realized I could never, ever find enough words to list all of the treasured memories.
Laying on the floor, beneath the layer of smoke, watching Hockey Night in Canada before Lawrence Welk came on. Still remembering all these years later that 5-6-5-3 on the tiny organ was the opening to 'Silent Night'. The Christmas tree every year. The way all the candies in the glass candy dish glommed together and you thought nothing of chipping one or two off for yourself. When I stayed with them a couple of nights a week for a time during university, having to keep the bedroom door wide open if I had a girlfriend over (and having Nana then come in "excuse me, dear" 317 times with treats). Staying over and getting up at about 5 a.m. on my fifth or sixth birthday, going in the kitchen and finding a new bike and proceeding to ride it all the way downtown (imagine that today?), then somehow finding my way back before anyone else even woke up. Playing road hockey with the older Rogers boys from next door. Nana pointing out 'Sammy the Seagull' (one of Santa's helpers who followed the youngsters to make sure they were behaving) on the pole outside the house.
I have to stop, or this column will be 6,000 words long. And the real magic was that every single other grandchild has their own treasure trove of unique and wonderful memories.
I guess the real magic isn't where you are but who you're with. But I'll sure miss that house.
PQB News/Vancouver Island Free Daily editor Philip Wolf welcomes your questions, comments and local story ideas. He can be reached via email at philip.wolf@blackpress.ca; by phone at 250-905-0029 or on Twitter .
