One thing that I’ve learned as I’ve grown up is the value of place—places that I’ve lived in or spent fond memories at; places that have been a part of my daily life for a long period of time. Seeing how these places that were once important to me have changed over time, or ceased to exist entirely, is something that I find to be a source of nostalgia and melancholy. I’ve only lived in Victoria for five years, but looking back at how certain places have changed makes it feel like a lifetime.
Shortly after moving here, I lived in a house near Oaklands Elementary School with four friends. We often threw themed parties there and it was a place where everyone in my life congregated. We would climb onto the roof to look at the stars, and jump the fence to play at the school playground in the middle of the night, and have everyone over for holiday meals. We unofficially adopted the neighbor’s cat, Ollie, who spent every day with us, and we discovered that he loved classical music. It all felt very special.
One evening, shortly before we had to move out, we found Ollie dead on our driveway, seemingly from natural causes. And the day after we moved, demolition was already underway as the property was to be developed. The next month all that was left was a hole in the earth where the house used to be, and there remained no evidence that a place that was so important to us had ever existed, not even Ollie. The only remaining proof is in our memories and photos taken that year.
Since then I have spent most of my time in North Park, where Wellburn’s Market, sadly, disappeared, along with its classic cartoon farm animal window paintings. The only evidence of those paintings known to me is in a second-floor apartment window at the intersection of Pandora and Quadra, which I always make sure to look at when I pass by.
Recently I’ve watched as the Fernwood beach—the Vic High bleachers—get torn down. If you’re local to that area you know that that site was a classic spot during the summers. Sitting on the steps of the bleachers, sipping beers, and watching people and their dogs run the track while the sun set was a quintessential Fernwood activity. Since the summer of 2020, demolition crews have been slowly erasing its existence.
Except for the small piece of cement that my roommate and I grabbed from the rubble one evening, and its appearances in the film Scary Movie, soon that place too will be gone.
Even though it’s bittersweet to see these places disappear, I find it nice to remember a lifetime that was once spent somewhere, only to live on through salvaged artifacts and shared memory. And as I prepare to move to a new city, I’m excited to find new places that will become special to me.