A faded rose.

“Delta Dawn, what’s that flower you have on?
Could it be a faded rose from days gone by?
And did I hear you say he was a-meeting you here today
To take you to his mansion in the sky?”

”Delta Dawn” by Helen Reddy

My grandmother successfully relocated her CKC-registered dog breeding business to her new homestead along 22 Highway on the then-outskirts of London, just a few hundred meters from Wonderland Road North. Now called Fanshawe Park Road West, her spacious 3.5-acre property is currently surrounded by suburban homes from the Foxfield neighbourhood. It’s hard to believe that I once used binoculars to catch a glimpse of the distant city limits!

A haven of comfort.

I cherished the countless weekends spent at her country-style house, a haven for a young girl and two gentle, enormous and incredibly slobbery Newfoundland dogs, and oodles of the fluffiest, sweetest Pomeranian pups. The Poms, Grandma’s pride and joy bread and butter, brought me immeasurable comfort with every snuggle, whimper, and wag of their little bums, soothing my anxieties as I helped care for them. Morning and evening, I’d dash to the barn, their distinctive, attention-grabbing barks resonating across the landscape—far enough to reach Masonville Mall, if it had existed then. Like a malfunctioning smoke alarm, their unmistakable cacophony announced feeding time (and the drop of a feather). The sharp cries pierced the air—and human eardrums alike. Though not for the faint-hearted, it was music to my ears as they eagerly waddled, flopped, and toddled toward me. They needed me, and I needed them.

Goldie, the beloved house dog, was my steadfast companion. Each morning, she waited faithfully outside my grandfather’s bedroom door, but it was with me that she spent her days. Her comforting presence followed me wherever I went, and her unwavering loyalty filled me with a profound sense of love, belonging, and purpose that I craved. Always seeking each other’s company, our bond was special—a silent understanding that transcended words.

Yet, it is the portrait of Libby that proudly adorns my dining room wall. Libby, the original dam, symbolizes my grandmother’s resilience and foresight, embodying her legacy. The true matriarch who played a vital role in supporting my grandmother’s family and ensuring its stability.

Memories and moonshine.

Grandma’s house was a hub for friends and family who sat talking, laughing, eating—and mostly chain-smoking—around the vintage blue Formica laminate table placed smack-dab in the middle of her vibrant and spacious kitchen. Looking back, I realize that the kitchen wasn’t all that spacious, but doesn’t everything look and feel bigger when you’re a child?

The kitchen wasn’t the only thing that wasn’t what it seemed. Little Me would learn much later that many of those visitors were there to buy moonshine, but the spirit of her home was unmistakable. Amidst the lively commotion of family and friends, I could be found rolling cigarettes on the Supermatic II Cigarette Maker, helping my grandmother place bets on horse races, or usually to everyone’s amusement, outside lazily swinging on the rusty red swing set, proudly belting out the lyrics to “Delta Dawn” on repeat. A number one hit on the Billboard Hot 100 chart in June 1973, I was obsessed with this song and sang it 24/7. 

Obsessed.

So much so that my parents went to great lengths to arrange a performance of the song just for me when I was four years old.  It took place at the rowdy, dimly lit, and cigarette smoke-filled—you know, family-friendly—El Morocco Tavern where tragically a fight resulted in the death of a 23-year-old earlier that year.

As one does.

But, let’s take a moment shall we, to point out the interesting coincidence that the song’s lyrics reflect themes of lost love and enduring hope.

If anything, I’m consistent.

A return to memories.

My grandmother’s home was my favourite place to be … me. So it was with a lot of mixed emotions when I walked through her house with my husband and two sons in 2013, long after it had been sold to developers and abandoned. Shock: to see it in such condition. I think I actually stopped breathing. Anger: to see such destructive acts of vandalism. Disappointment: that I let that happen. Sadness: to see such disrespect to a home that meant so much to me. Scared: at what I might see as I nervously showed my family around the home where I had spent so much of my childhood. Happiness: as I remembered the countless number of “visitors” and family members that walked through the doors on a regular basis and sat at the table I could easily envision in the center of what used to be such a vibrant kitchen. Joy: as I recalled the laughter and the smell of the homemade porridge my grandma would make for me every morning. Fun: that I had running the now-vintage sweeper broom over her carpets, willingly washing melamine dishes at her classic farmhouse sink, getting paid 10 cents/cup to pick the berries that we would use to make jam together, making clothes out of scrap fabric found in the creepy cellar that my boys were too afraid to walk down, and, of course, collecting bread tabs (wink). Proud: as I watched my children and husband embrace my past. Resolve: to ignore the bullies in my life. Relief: that I just might have the teensiest bit of her strength to fight whatever battles await. Acceptance: that her house would be gone soon.

And finally … gratitude: for having her in my life.

My grandmother’s house and the time I spent with her were more than just childhood memories; they were the delightful and yes—slightly unconventional—experiences that shaped who I am today.