There is an apartment on the third floor of the highrise next to my mom’s apartment building. This Christmas, in the window of that third floor apartment, shines a glittering Christmas tree. This tree has mesmerized me all season. I don’t know exactly why. Is it because it’s on the third floor and the angle with which I have to look up at it? Is it because it’s perfectly shaped and I love the retro color of the lights? Is it because it’s right in the window for all the world (or at least the people on that street) to enjoy? Is it because it was the first tree I saw this season in that building and it made a very good first impression? I am not sure, but I do know this, I have a story or should I say an illusion, of what it is like up there in that third floor apartment. In my mind, if they have a tree like that, then it must be a glorious place. With a lovely cozy kitchen and a fireplace and beautiful music playing and a dog dozing on a large soft comfy couch with a soft luxurious fur or plaid blanket crumpled on the ottoman in case one gets chili. A tray of pate’ and crackers and a cup of hot chocolate on the side table. I’ve always wondered what it must be like to live in that highrise, even if only on the third floor. I stop and stare at it every time I drop my mom off and make my way back to the car. It has captured my imagination.
I also love to catch a glimpse into homes that leave their blinds open when I drive by. Better still, a walk would be in order. Of course, it must be dark in order to see anything and I don’t usually go walking after dark. I imagine what it’s like in these homes. I see their Christmas trees. Or their perfectly placed lamps casting ambiance in all the right places. Or the way they have arranged their furniture and artwork or family pictures. The interesting levels of the home. Often I will see the kitchen, with someone cooking or baking in it. Very often the drapes are not fully open, just enough for me to spot one amazing feature and make up the rest of the decor in my head. I imagine a wonderful happy family or maybe just a young couple starting out. From what I can see through the windows, I imagine what life must be like within those four walls. The way people arrange and decorate their homes tells me a lot about them. I am not a purposeful peeping Tom but if the opportunity arises, I will look. I find it intriguing.
I love to spot an entire wall of books akin to a library. Something I would love to have myself. Or a living room where a large screen TV is NOT the focal point. Where you can imagine someone sipping tea and engrossed in an incredible book. There is one home in an area where I used to walk often, that had one entire room, fully windowed, for one piece of furniture. A grand piano. Another home, down the road from this one, boasts a lovely wrap around veranda with a vast expanse of green grass and aged trees adding to its charm. I imagine cotton plantations where folks would gather on the veranda for iced tea on a hot afternoon, with grandmas knitting in rocking chairs and littles playing with toy soldiers. (I do have a rich thought life…LOL) Front entrances speak to me. Your first impression of a home. Does it say ‘Welcome, I’m so glad you came’ or ‘leave me alone’? When I lived in Toronto I used to come home through a very posh area and the homes were set very far back from the road. I loved catching a glimpse inside these stately manors. It seemed a life I would never know but I think these glimpses into these homes set up ideas in my own imagination of what I wanted my own home to be like. Very often – ok, every time – we go to Niagara on the Lake we drive by the reknowned Canadian artist, Trishia Romances’ home. I know what it looks like inside because of her artwork. And its a dream on the outside, too.
I want my home to reflect love and acceptance. I want my home to be a place that people never want to leave. I want others to feel safe and comfortable in my home. I hope my own family can’t wait to get home each night to a place that is warm, inviting, safe and full of love. I don’t want such exquisite and expensive things that no one feels they can touch or use them. I guess that’s why most of my furniture is/are cast offs that I dragged home from some place where it/they were no longer wanted. I once had our home painted and had to take all the personal effects off the walls (as if we were moving) and once it was done, it was a very peaceful atmosphere to have nothing hanging on the walls but I was missing the things I loved and that instilled sentiments I wanted to feel. So eventually, it all went back up. I love to have family photos on the walls. I love to have handmade things sprinkled around. I love pieces with a story. I want my home to tell a story and a guest feels like they are reading a good book just by being in it. I want it to be interesting and mysterious too.
When I do have the good fortune to see inside someone’s lovely home, I am reminded of a story that was read to me often as a little girl. It was Hans Christian Anderson’s “The Little Match Girl”. My mom read a lot of Hans Christian Anderson and Robert Louis Stevenson to as kids (she was an English teacher). As the story goes …”On a freezing New Year’s Eve a poor young girl, shivering and barefoot, tries to sell matches in the street. Afraid to go home because her father will beat her for failing to sell any matches, she huddles in the alley between two houses and lights matches, one by one, to warm herself. In the flame of the matches she sees a series of comforting visions: a warm stove, a holiday feast, a happy family, and a Christmas tree. Each vision disappears as its match burns out. (I think this is where I got this obsession of mine. I have always remembered her looking into windows as opposed to visions). In the sky she sees a shooting star, which her late grandmother had told her means someone is on their way to Heaven. In the flame of the next match she sees her grandmother, the only person to have treated her with love and kindness. To keep the vision of her grandmother alive as long as possible, the girl lights the entire bundle of matches. When the matches are gone the girl dies, and her grandmother carries her soul to Heaven. The next morning, passers-by find the girl frozen, and express pity. They do not know about the wonderful visions she had seen, or how happy she is with her grandmother in heaven.
Isn’t it interesting how the things we hear or see when we are young formulate our ideas when we are grown. I have often imagined myself as the little match girl looking longingly into the windows of others that appear to be living a fairy tale life. I am sure they are not, just as I am not, but it’s always fun to imagine a little. Is it not?
The Red Plaid Apron 