I was driving home the other night after dark, but not yet night. I was looking in the windows of the homes in Montreal West we were passing through. The houses were probably built between the two world wars or perhaps even earlier as Montreal’s suburbs were expanding. 

I was reminded of my own home growing up in Town of Mount Royal which was of the same vintage. Both neighbourhoods at the time were inhabited by middle class professionals in a society that was more nine to five and regimented. Churches were active and important back then. Children joined Boy Scouts or Girl Guides and on our street most moms were educated but could afford to stay home and raise their children. 

Bliminal spaces like this have always interested and attracted me. I was struck by the soft yellowish low watt lighting in empty dens, living rooms, front hallways. Lit for the inhabitants not yet home. I was comforted by this idea of refuge. Imagining walking in the door and being greeted by a warm living space with unmoving air from cast iron radiators.

As a youth, When I would return home from choir practice I would walk several blocks from the downtown commuter train (now part of the REM) and see similar homes waiting, dimly lit by perhaps a wall sconce or a table lamp. Perhaps the invisible kitchen was a hive of activity, someone preparing dinner in a brightly lit aromatic back room, but the rest of the house just waiting. Houses I would probably never enter, but I recognized the feeling, recognized the layout. Refuge. A quiet place to shake off the day and perhaps relax in an easy chair with the paper and a sherry or vermouth (like my dad did). 

I have been in many older homes in TMR, Montreal West, NDG and Westmount and I recognize the vibe. Clean, orderly, filled with loved objects and favourite books in neat bookshelves. Different homes with a sameness about them. These glimpses in passing are comforting to me. 

I am also reminded of a similar feeling I have driving on older highways and looking in windows of rural homes. My family used to travel between Montreal and Ottawa frequently. I had grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins in Ottawa. This is before the 417 was completed. The 417 bypasses everything and could be any highway anywhere with few landmarks or personality. The older highway took longer, but it passed real places where people lived.

Returning from Ottawa on a Sunday night the route offered glimpses into lives different from mine. I enjoyed the cold blue light from fluorescent lights in kitchens. I could imagine the hum from the fridge and the swish swish of a dishwasher in the after supper hour. The glow of a TV in another room, the scrubbed kids in their pjs staying up to watch Ed Sullivan. Some of the houses seemed plunked there randomly like a monopoly house dropped on a carpet.  There didn’t seem to be any reason for a house to to be there unlike the rambling farm houses which were large and had many out buildings.

Sometimes the route passed abandoned homes. Each former refuge transformed by life stories and hardships unknown to me, the casual observer, and lost in time.

As I write this in my comfy office I imagine someone walking their dog on the street glancing in here and seeing my computer screen and the back of my body as I sit here typing. Perhaps one day they will write about their impressions of this, my refuge.