Men's Work

As I was scraping the peeling paint and rust off the wrought iron fence at the front of the house with the blazing sun beating down on me, I couldn't help but think that this fence will likely be gone in a year's time. The dream was to have some landscaping done this year, replacing the wall/fence. But when the quotes came in much higher than anticipated, it got moved to the back burner. When we had the house painted, I foolishly didn't have them paint the fence since a fear of heights was the only thing keeping me from painting the house myself. I tend to underestimate the amount of work that such a job entails. Exterior painting is much more challenging than its interior counterpart. It has to be over 10C with no rain forecast for at least 48 hours, which this summer has been a challenge. The paint purchased in early June has been sitting in the dining room waiting for a good stretch of weather when I had time to do it. Since the downpour on Friday, we've had blue skies and sunshine all weekend, so this was my chance.

We have been in our house for three years now, but rarely have we spoken to the neighbours other than those on either side of us. I recognize many of them, and I'm sure that they know us too. But what do we really have to talk about? They are mostly retired Italian & Portuguese couples who hold court on their front porches, keeping the pavement freshly watered every day, and chatting in languages that we don't speak. We are not married and we don't have any children, so it is hard for them to relate to us. They call us the Canadians. We're the newcomers who are changing their neigbourhood. I discovered that the best way to get to know everybody is to do some yard work. When you use a bucket of water and sponge instead of a garden hose to wash the fence, people take notice. My water efficient technique really turned some heads. And why was I doing this work, and not the man of the house? Painting is men's work.

I was careful to catch all the paint drips on the curly patterned wrought iron fence as the men of the neighbourhood shuffled by, admiring my handiwork. They all took the opportunity to comment and encourage, and to get a closer look at this freaky woman who was doing men's work. I'm a novelty. Dozens of cars circled the block for parking spaces close to the street fair on College Street, as I moved on to the brickwork, covering up the last of the pink. Three men close to my own age were making their way to their parked car and couldn't help but comment on what a strange sight it is to see a woman with a paint brush. I just laughed it off. The wives were straggling behind, and the one guy waited for them to catch up so that he could show his wife that women can paint. They too marvelled at my skill and talent with the brush. Clearly the division of labour in their house must fall along the traditional gender lines. If she wanted the bedroom repainted, she'd have to convince her husband to do it. But not here. I'm too independent to let gender hold me back from doing what I want.

The truth is that I've always been attracted to the more male activities: painting, putting out the garbage, plumbing and math. I was one of only a few women in my university engineering classes so I'm accustomed to standing out. But in my family, there were no gender lines. I thought that it was because I have no brothers and because we lived on a farm, so we all had to pitch in to get stuff done, inside and out. My sister and I piled wood, drove the tractor, trapped ground hogs, and spent hours weeding the garden. When I was four years old, my parents dug out the basement by hand. Watching my mom carry buckets of soil and rocks up the stairs must have had an impact on me. Clearly, women can do anything that men can do. She painted and wallpapered, and cut the grass. My Dad took me with him to cattle auctions. My grandmother would not hesitate to grab the riffle to get rid of a pesky ground hog. But there is one place where gender lines remained: cooking and cleaning. That was always women's work in my family. Women could do it all, and then some.

I feel bad for Dan. I know that all the neighbours look at him and wonder why he doesn't do his duty. But they don't see him cooking dinner every night or vacuuming. Truth is that I won't let him paint, work in the garden or do the laundry. I think that I'm better at it, and it drives him crazy. But, he lets me do all the men's work that I want to do. He grew up in a house of boys with two working parents, so he's not afraid of a little women's work. Plus, he's a much better cook than me. He brought me glasses of water every 15 minutes today, to make sure that I wouldn't dehydrate in the sun. And when I was done painting, he served me a bowl of home cooked chili and opened a beer for me. I'm sure that it's hard for the neighbours to understand, but at least the painting got done. And they can all appreciate a clean and tidy front lawn.

The Trouble with Trim

Like all jobs, it is the little finishing details that can drive you crazy. Have you ever tried to operate a mitre saw? Well, it is enough to drive you insane.

We planned to do the trim on Saturday, but the power was off in our neighbourhood for over 36 hours, which makes the mitre saw even more difficult to operate. Instead we went to Rona to buy the trim. With electricity at all outlets the next day, we were ready to begin cutting, except that the new trim was too tall for our borrowed mitre saw. We had the choice of buying a sliding compound mitre saw which retails at $1000, or we could exchange the trim for a shorter version. We chose the latter.

One more road trip to Rona and we were finally ready to get cutting. It seems pretty straight forward: 45 degree angles, inside corner, outside corner -- that kinda thing. But one wrong cut and then you get even more confused. Finally we sorted it out and got all the trim cut and nailed it onto the wall using this archaic tool called a hammer. It seems that people can only use those power Brad nailers these days, but we managed to get the trim in place using old school technology and some glue.

I'm sure that it was a thrill for our neighbours and their guests to have their Sunday dinner accompanied by the roar of our power saw and the soft percussion of our hammer. But with each finishing nail, I silently told them that if we get this done tonight, our loud renovation may soon be finished. Soon. For their sake, and for mine!

Montrose Ave: The Movie

Do you ever walk down the street and think that you're in a movie? You look around and you find yourself surrounded by characters brimming with life, and you think - hey, isn't that one of the guys from the Soprano's? It's like taking a walk through central casting on MGM's backlot. Or better yet, like being in Nanni Moretti's film, Caro diario. Moretti's movie is a whimsical love letter to Rome, containing three vignettes from his own life. It inspires you to book a flight to Rome, or to try making your own film.

Today it is -15C, so neighbourhood life is stunted to a brief hello when you're out shoveling snow. But I remember back to those warm summer evenings, when the ice cream truck would roll by every night at exactly 5:10 p.m., blaring that ice cream music that delights children, yet gives adults shuddering memories of horror movies. My front porch was like a movie screen, where I could sit back and watch the drama unfold. It is like a drive-in without the car. Neighbours stand at the end of their walkways and chat with one another, or shout take it ease from their front porches to passersby. But since this movie has no subtitles, I'm not really sure what's going on, because all the dialogue is in Italian or Portuguese. So, I just make up my own version of what's going on.

Well, you can only imagine my delight when I recently discovered that there already is a film called Montrose Ave, and it is all about my Montrose Ave. A friend saw a post card for it at a film festival and grabbed one for me. I checked out their website and see that there are two people in my neighbourhood who love the street even more than me. They have created the most charming hommage to the place that they've called home for over nine years. I just love it! The pictures on the website are reminiscent of my front porch summer drive-in. You can visit the Montrose Ave webpage to read all about the film, the filmmakers, and even better, to view a clip. (www.tincanforest.com)

How cool is it when your Money Pit is located in such a great neighbourhood that somebody has gone and made a film about it - a time capsule of the Montrose Ave before full on gentrification takes over. I can't wait to see it.

(Photo Credit: Montrose Avenue ©2006 Pat Shewchuk, Marek Colek)

Keeping the Peace (When You Can't Be Quiet)

I often think of the right thing to do, yet usually don't find the time to do it. The road to hell is paved with good intentions, as I always remind myself. When we started this latest renovation, I thought that it would be a good idea to give our neighbours some flowers or a plant or something, as a token to acknowledge the inconvenience and noise. Sadly, I didn't get around to it.

Last night, my plumbing teacher, Paul, came over to rough in the new sink in the kitchen & move the hose bib. He was supposed to arrive at 6 p.m., so Dan & I started ripping out the old sink & cabinets right after work, at 5 p.m. Lots of banging and sawing, but it was early. We finised right at 6. Paul arrived a bit late, around 7:15. We finally got to work and realized that ofcourse, there were lots of weird things that made the job more difficult and time consuming. To move the hose bib, for the outside garden hose, involved drilling a hole thru the exterior wall of the house. Paul forgot the correct drill bit, so he got part way thru, and then he took an old piece of 1/2" copper, that he banged thru the rest of the wall. It worked, but LOTS of banging. Then he wanted to secure the copper supply lines so that we wouldn't have pipe hammer. He once again took scraps of copper and hammered the end flat, so that he could wedge it between the wall studs. Then he sauldered the two copper pieces together ensuring that they would never move. As he was hammering the copper pipe flat against the floor joist, we heard a bang on the party wall of the house. Paul stopped instantly, thinking that it was an echo. But no, it was our neighbour, banging on the wall. He hammered again, and they started to bang again. Humm. Yes, I really regret not getting that poinsetta over to them. Dan went over to make the peace with them, but all their lights were off -- even their Christmas lights! It was after 10 p.m. and they were trying to sleep. I understand. I felt bad. They are quiet and friendly neighbours. How friendly will they be now?

Paul had to be on the job site at 7 a.m. the next day, but he was in no hurry to leave our house. 11 p.m. and he was still chatting away and tossing his tools around. (Good thing that we'd agreed on a flat rate.) Dan & I were carrying his stuff out the car, trying depserately to make the noise end faster. Paul pulls up his Firebird, the kind that revs really loudly. He doesn't realize that all our neighbours are retired. We load the tools and wave goodbye.

This morning, I rode my bike over to the only store that was open at 7 a.m. and bought their nicest box of chocolates and a pretty gift bag (I never buy gift bags), and wrote a card dripping with sincere apology. I selected a bag with that icon of Christmas: the dove carrying an olive branch in its mouth. I dropped the bag off on their front door on my way to work. When I came home, it was gone. So hopefully they got it before the squirells or racoons did. And I hope even more that they accept my olive branch. Afterall, I plan to be neighbours for long long time.

Hello Little Italy!

I have spent more than my fair share of time on College Street: enjoying the excellent chicken sandwiches at the Riviera Bakery, beers & panzerotto's on the patio of the Cafe Dip, fish sandwiches at the Fish Store, pasta at the Standard Club, or just making my way to and from the West End Y. I love the neighbourhood. But before I moved, I realized that it is going to be a very different experience from what I was used to.

I loved Kensington Market too: all the fresh produce, European Meats, amazing cheese shops, bulk food, Jumbo Empanada, car free Sundays, the Winter Solstice Festival of Lights - there is always something going on. My condo overlooked a quiet residential street with 3 storey colourful houses and big trees. But I never talked to any of the neighbours on Nassau. Mere steps from the hustle of Chinatown & the bustle of Grossman's Tavern, it just wasn't that kind of neighbourhood.

Just before I moved, I went for a morning run past the new house, to take a photo for my curious family & friends. It was just after 7 a.m., and I paused only slightly across the street, when out came the curious neighbour to the north, defending his turf. Great, I thought, the new house comes with a concierge. I went over to introduce myself as his new neighbour. He smiled and said: prego. He seemed slightly startled when I shook his hand, but he waved back as I ran away, likely wondering what he was in for. A neighbour who runs for no purpose.

I really have no idea what he was thinking. But I can see that he is a very friendly and extremely house-proud man. This neighbourhood is full of both Italian & Portuguese families with roots in the trades & construction. Mostly retired, they have oodles of time and tons of skills to customize the facades and interiors of their homes. Their perfectly manicured yards are swept and hosed daily. Will I be able to keep up with their maintenance schedules? I have to go to work, after all. Should we join the trend and have our front garden covered in brick on concrete? Am I just another "Canadian", ruining the neighbourhood?

Our houses are only a few inches apart, so without a doubt, these people are going to become a part of my life. I'm now a part of a neighbourhood, where people stand at the end of sidewalk and chat with each other in a variety of languages, and where the ice cream truck passes every day at 5:10 p.m. This is way better than the Little Italy that I thought I was moving into.