The Neighbourhood That Shaped Me—and Why It No Longer Feels Like Home

I was thinking about the neighbourhood I grew up in. When I was a little girl, it was the best neighbourhood in town. Those early years are full of childhood neighbourhood memories that I still carry with me.

I remember waking in the mornings to the sound of hundreds (or thousands?) of birds, all singing and talking to each other. They were so loud, and my bedroom faced the morning sunrise so I was often up with the sun (and the birds). And in the winter, I would wake to the smell of woodsmoke drifting from the fireplaces of the other homes.

There was a small school in the neighbourhood, from kindergarten to grade six. I only made it to grade two before it closed, and looking back, that was the beginning of the end. We were sent to a larger school nearby, but it wasn't the same. The kids from my neighbourhood school still had each other to go to school with, but once we made it through to the end of grade eight, something had shifted. People stopped buying houses in the neighbourhood. It didn't make sense to invest in a place where your children would have to go to a school that didn't align with your family.

Years later when my husband and I looked at a house in the neighbourhood, we asked about schooling for our daughter. (I was hoping they had come to a better solution by that point) The real estate agent told us that she would have to go to that one and that it was one of the worst schools in town. I was surprised, but it only confirmed what I already knew.

In the neighbourhood, my street backed onto parks and recreation land - a playground and pool, two baseball diamonds, a football field with a track, a hockey arena and an auditorium.

I learned to swim in that pool. My lessons were early in the morning, before the sun had fully risen over the trees, and the water was always cold. I remember the teachers hounding us to get in, because of course we would hesitate, and try to put off the start. They wanted us to tread water for 5 minutes before the rest of the class started. To this day, I hate being cold and wet at the same time.

The auditorium dated back to the Second World War; they packed parachutes there. I went to so many craft shows there with my mom. I remember that we would dress nicely - not fancy, but with extra care - then we would walk over and wait in a long line to get in. Those craft show day memories are tied to the sunny, crisp days of fall. I can also remember my parents attending the Policeman's Ball there every New Years Eve.

Since those memories, the city has ripped out the pool, torn down the auditorium, and stopped taking care of the track that once circled it. There are no more high school football games, no more craft shows, and no more track and field days. The field is still used by soccer teams, but the track is permanently gone. And where the auditorium once stood, there is only parking for the arena - though even that is set to be torn down someday. There are no more high school football games, no more craft shows, and no more track and field days.

I would like to say that it's just poor management of this part of town - but it isn't.

They tore down their own city hall to make way for a mall, and to build themselves a new city hall at another location. I'm too young to remember it myself, but the old city hall was one of those architectural buildings that can't be replaced. It was part of a set of three, all designed together - a church, a school and the city hall. Each on their own corner. The church is the only one still standing. People who are new to the town often stop and admire its beauty. And I find myself thinking, if only you knew.

What makes the tearing down of that old city hall worse in my eyes, is that they didn't even take care of the building that replaced it. They let it run down, and are now in the process of rebuilding and moving into the mall where the old Sears store once was. This is in the same spot where the original beautiful city hall used to be.

Some of these childhood memories have been on my mind for awhile, but even more so today as I drive through my community and see places that are missing. And that’s when it hit me: the people, the care, the quiet rhythms that once made it feel like home—they’re no longer here.

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I can still hear the birds in the morning if I think about it. I can still remember the smell of woodsmoke in the winter, and the feeling of cold water before the sun had fully risen. Those memories feel like mine in ways nothing else ever will.

I am someone who notices old buildings, who believes places carry stories worth keeping. I see the value in history, that buildings are more than something that is easily replaced with new.

It's not just disappointment in the loss of architecture. It's the realization that the people in this community are not my kind of people anymore. We don't believe in the same things. Most people that I grew up with are long gone. I often dream of finding a small town, a community, a home, where the people are friendly and have good inside them.

Maybe this isn’t just my experience. Maybe we all reach a point where we look around and realize we no longer belong to the place that once shaped us. Some things don't come back. And some places, no matter how deeply they shaped you, are not meant to hold you forever.

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If you’re drawn to slower, more intentional ways of living, you might also enjoy some of my seasonal reflections. Seasonal Garden Reflection: Gathering Quiet Lessons Under the October Moon