Old buildings have always fascinated me.
They are scattered throughout Alberta like blueberries in a pancake.
"They all look the same." The person that said this to me has no imagination, nor is he my kindred spirit, as Anne 'with an E' would say.
Like a mystery novel, each building tells it's own story. If only there were words to read.
"......and when little Emma heard the clatter of the wagon wheels she ran to the window......" I would love to know who lived in this house and learn about how their lives played out on this isolated piece of land. Some day the houses we built will be over run with packrats and moss. But they won't be as pretty because of the material they are built with.
Someone must have fell a tree and hand split these shakes, and his wife brought him a lunch while he was working.
Someone forged a fancy door latch and everyone was proud of it. It was different than most.
And someone took a tiny shoot from a neighbour's lilac bush and planted it beside their house, hoping it would flourish and bring beauty to their little homestead......and it did.
They didn't know that someday two people would ride past their place on motorcycles and take pictures. They didn't know that someone would pick a lilac from the bush they planted. Didn't know that they would be thought about and wondered about.
They didn't know that the lilac would be placed in the motorcycle's cup holder and that every time the rider stopped she would take it out and sniff it until it was all used up and wilted. And that she would think about those people as she rode back to Vancouver Island, a far away place they had most likely never been before.
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