If These Walls Could Speak

I live in a city that has a lot of history. Most cities do, I suppose, but ours is one that isn't that old, so it is easily traced. I've started spending time in the public archives, reading about times gone by, looking at photos of what used to be and what still remains.

How often I walk by places and wonder about their stories. Perhaps because my father built homes, I have a particular affinity for buildings. One of my favourites in Halifax is The Waverley, which is now a boutique Inn. I wrote a story which was published in the Chronicle Herald but in case those stories eventually go away, I thought I'd put it here as well.










THE HALIFAX WAVERLEY

If the walls of the Waverley Inn could talk, they would tell stories of grand parties,
interesting characters, ladies of leisure, ladies of the evening and even a ghost story or two.

In the city’s south end, The Waverley Inn stands as a beacon to a time long gone.
The bright yellow building is recognizable to many Haligonians as a landmark on
Barrington Street and its history is just as colourful.

When Halifax began, Barrington Street, from Spring Garden Road to Inglis,
was called Pleasant Street. It was on this street in 1865 that construction of a grand house
commenced. By 1867 Edward W. Chipman and his socialite wife Mahala moved into one of the
most expensive and extravagant homes in the city. From the very beginning, it was considered
a lavish place to hold social gatherings and Mahala hosted dances and parties for local society
which included British officers stationed in the garrison.

When Chipman’s dry-goods business began to fail, the house was lost to the Sheriff and sold
at auction to a local real estate investor, who flipped the property to two sisters,
Sarah and Jane Romans. It was the Romans Sisters who turned the property into the
Waverley Hotel, building an addition on to the back to accommodate more guests, making
The Waverley one of Halifax’s finest residential inns. During that time, it boasted some well-known guests including Irish poet Oscar Wilde, who has a room named after him, Anna Leonowens, the inspiration for the movie and musical “The King and I” and well known showman P.T. Barnum of the Barnum and Bailey Circus.

artist rendition of the Waverley in the late 1800's

After the Romans sisters retired in 1905 the building changed hands a couple of times and in
1944, during the Second World War, it was purchased by the Blue Triangle Women's League.
The Women’s League was a charitable organization that stemmed from the YWCA. One of their
functions was to look after war brides immigrating through Pier 21 and many of these women
stayed at the Waverley before moving on to their homes across the country.
Members of the Women's Royal Canadian Naval Service (WRCNS or "Wrens") were also housed there.

Calvin Blades is the manager of the Waverley and has worked there for the past 25 years.
He has met some of these women, who have returned for reunions. They remember their time
at the hotel fondly.

“They tell of a much different time back then. For instance, when they wanted to have gentlemen
callers, it had to be supervised visits in the sitting room. They certainly didn’t go out alone, or
entertain in their rooms.”

Blades was hired by owner Abe Leventhal who had purchased the Inn in 1950’s. By this time,
The Waverley, and the neighbourhood was in a decline. In fact, for a while, the area from
Spring Garden Road to Inglis Street was Halifax’s red-light district, so it’s no surprise that
The Waverley saw its share of illicit action, with some of Madam Ada McCallum’s girls sitting in
the lobby.

When Leventhal and his business partner first purchased the property, it was as a redevelopment
project. The initial thought was to tear down the building and put up a motel complex but luckily
they didn’t act on that idea right away. Later, those plans changed when Leventhal and his wife
Elaine, were visiting her family in Massachusetts. They noticed the trend throughout
New England was to renovate old Victorian homes into inns and B&Bs and they saw the potential in the Waverley. It wasn’t until the early 80’s that this plan was put into action.
Elaine Leventhal wanted to restore the inn to an upscale property, and that meant the clientele
had to change and the ladies of the evening were no longer welcome.

Mrs. Leventhal’s taste was more on the lavish side, so the decor became quite opulent with
plush burgundy carpeting and dusty rose embossed wallpaper. Most of the Victorian antiques
were acquired at this time.

Although he has been there for 25 years, Blades said he originally had no intention of staying
that long. But the Leventhals made it “a fun place to work with a kind of family atmosphere” and
the returning guests became friends as they came back several times a year, over the years.
Other long-time staff stayed for the same reason. Calvin remembers the Leventhal's going to
dinner in the evenings and popping in afterward to drop off a meal or dessert to him as he worked the front desk.

In the 1990’s, Abe Leventhal entered into an agreement with the provincial government to allow
refugees to stay in the hotel. Drita Marshall, who fled her home in Albania, was one of those
guests. She credits Mr. Leventhal not just for providing her with a temporary home, but a job as
well. She remains on staff today.

There are other “returning guests” that become a topic of conversation at the Waverley, those
of the ghostly variety. The Waverley has been the subject of several television “ghost hunter”
type shows. Staff and guests alike claim to have seen the same apparition of a Victorian era
woman in a long dress. She has been spotted in the hallways and sometimes sitting at the foot
of a bed. No one seems to know who she was in life, but in death, all reports say there is positive feeling, nothing malevolent, so the Waverley ghosts is a friendly and agreeable guest.

Upon the death of Abe Leventhal three years ago, the fate of the Waverley was in question. As a location of prime real estate, there was much interest and an offer was accepted. Known for building condominiums, Nassim Ghosn had every intention of tearing down The Waverley and putting up a modern building. But once again, the Waverley’s charm saved it from the wrecking ball. When Ghosn walked through the place, learned its history and heard stories from the staff, he decided that the Waverley had to stay The Waverely. And once again, the inn is in the hands of a family.


Major plans are underway for renovations, with a new, modern building behind and the original
building to remain. The Ghosn’s hope to open up the main level as a cafe or restaurant while
keeping the Victorian feel in the original guest rooms upstairs.

For over 150 years the Waverley Inn has weathered many storms, literally and figuratively
speaking. It has survived the Halifax Explosion, world wars, economic decline and threats of
demolition. It is rooted into Halifax’s history and grounded to see its future.

carpe diem and auld lang syne

This is the first morning of 2019.

I didn't hear the New Year, it crept in while I was sleeping.

It also brought the snow, so on this first morning, I get to watch it drop softly from the still-dark sky.


2018 left with a lot of retrospection.

It was a year of changes that led me to reassess. New Year's Eve can do that anyway, but this feels different.

It feels urgent. But not sudden.


Almost a year ago I was speaking with a friend. His life was coming to an end soon, and sometimes, in those times, we are granted gifts of clarity. I was talking about the job I was doing. I loved the work, the people, but I couldn't make it balance. It felt like all I did was work and sleep. It was then that my friend said to me, "You're making a living, but not a life".
In that instant, I fell into tears. Something in those words made a deep impact and a new year later, I'm unable to shake them.


We always hear the phrases seize the day, life is short, things could change in an instant... and we know them to be true, but not really. Not down deep where we register truth, that place somewhere below our ribs. Those words flutter down like the ashes of burnt pages until they settle and only then can they be gathered. Only then can you begin to sweep out what you no longer need.


More than anything I am hyper-aware of how little time we have in this world.
More than ever I want my time to be spent in meaningful ways.
I don't what that is yet, but I know it because it has settled in that place of truth.

Resolutions aren't my thing, though the start of a new year holds so much possibility. We sing Auld Lang Syne to remember days gone by and drink to old friends. We straddle the last day of the old year and the first of the new, somewhere between being prone to nostalgia and projecting what we hope will come. But we also must stand on firm and present ground.

Sometimes carpe diem means watching the snow fall on to the new year, wrapping your hands around a cup of fresh coffee and knowing that in this moment, you have all you need.

High functioning lows and disfunctional highs

"Snap out of it. "

"You're too smart to be here. "

"This isn't you. "

Those are sentences I heard from someone I knew after I had been admitted to hospital for severe depression. Despondent, suicidal depression.

But all of those statements were wrong.
It was me. 

Intellect had nothing to do with it. 

There is no such thing as snapping out of it. 

In fairness, people saw what I wanted them to see- I hid everything in a fun flurry of distraction. But in truth, I was on walking life support. The outward appearance was a facade; a new paint job on a rotting house. An inside filled with chaos, papered with a smiling face. I had been like that for quite some time, functioning well on the surface, all the while crumbling at the foundation. And you can only patch and prop up for so long. 

I don't talk about that part of my journey often, partly because I want to leave it behind where it belongs. But also because, as much as there has been a movement toward acceptance and understanding, there is still a stigma that makes daily life a little bit more difficult to manoeuvre. 

I don't identify it because I don't want any of my decisions or reactions to be questioned or judged as not fully authentic. 

Those closest to me know, of course, but I don't offer it up. 

I've made peace with it. And with myself. Most days. 

But there is that fear. 

Fear that it will return in the form of light-eating shadows. 

When there is a low day, or a sad one, I must assess it. I have to be diligent and aware. Is it a regular sad or a slippery-send -you- down- the- hole- sad? I don't have that luxury of just mindlessly being in it. I have to make sure I know what it is first. I heard another line from the foot of my hospital bed all those years ago. 

"Everyone gets blue"

Ah, but there is a big difference between baby blue and midnight. A big difference and a thin line. 

Not all blues are equal

The lows aren't the only problem. They are easier to mask than extreme highs so I also have to watch if I'm too "up". Manic episodes are more dangerous. The body count is higher. With depression, you mostly harm yourself. When you are manic, everyone around is caught in the crossfire so there is a greater risk of casualty. It is difficult to trust a good mood, and even harder to celebrate it. Sadly, I must treat it with suspicion. 

Admittedly, there are times when I visit old resentments. There is regret about lost time and opportunities. More than once I've had to start from scratch and truth be told, it sometimes makes me angry; angry that I'm not where I should be at this point in my life. There is also anger because it is out of my control. It's like having an out of body experience while in a car crash. You know the wheels have come off and all you can do is hold your breath and hang on to the steering wheel. 

Each time I went skidding and crashing on that stony hard bottom, knowing the next step was nothingness, a nothingness that  I welcomed and wanted because to fight was just too much.  When you are at the bottom again, the climb back up seems impossible. Starting from scratch means your peer group passes you and you watch everyone that was on the same path, the same level, become successful in career and in life. Your success comes in the ways no one will know. While others were succeeding in getting great roles, great deals, great jobs, a success for me became the ability to take a shower, to put on clothes.

It's as easy to get caught up in regret as it is pointless. I remind myself that I should be proud of my rebirths and all that I have overcome. But it's hard not to think of what I may have become. I resent the reoccurring resurrection.

And so I remain the sentinel of my psyche, always watching for the enemy.
On the low days, I smile and laugh and joke, using those tools as the grand deflector. I make decisions, fulfil obligations, do what I have to in order to maintain order. And no one knows because I don't want them to know. I keep it from family so they don't worry, I keep it from my work so they don't judge. I keep my highs and my lows to myself until I know for certain that I have to put it out there and let someone else handle it.

It's a balancing act which constantly requires my attention and a good safety net. So every day I stand up, put one foot in front of the other and try not to look down.
Or behind.

bring on the light

Renovations

                             

I've changed the name and look of this blog.
Originally it was called "random ruminations and rants" but I've come to find that too heavy. The expectations are too negative.

So my attempt to put a bit of light into the world, I've decided to call it Swum Hell or High Water.
It seems lighter, floaty...
And it suits me more. Always swimming. So far unsinkable.

Not that there still won't be rants. Or ruminations. Or randomness.
But I've been navigating hell's high waters for some time now, and despite everything, I'm still afloat. As long as I keep coming to the surface, it's all good.

a house full of ghosts

Laila Lalami says "Writing a novel is like living in a house full of ghosts.."


I liken it to being schizophrenic and hearing voices, but I like her analogy better.


She continues


"— even when you ignore them, they’re still there, waiting to talk to you. "


It's true.

I've been ignoring my ghosts a lot lately.

I hear them, swirling about, whispering over my shoulder.. "what about us..?"


I will return to them. So I say.

But my excuses drive the wagon. It's almost summer. I want to spend all my time at the beach.

Fall is better.

But then I want to be outside taking pictures.

Rainy days are for Netflix. Sometimes I don't want to be the one to tell the story.

Winter. Winter for sure. I'll have the ghosts to keep me busy. But winters come and go and still I haven't given a voice to the voices.


"They have all the time in the world. No matter how much you avoid them, the time comes when you have to confront them. Hear them out. See what they have to say. "


Ghosts have all the time in the world.

I don't.

clean grief

I've been sitting with this for a while.
Partly because that's how it has to settle. It has to get in my bones until it doesn't feel uncomfortable any more. Then it is real.
And partly because I've been fighting what I've just said. Because if I sit on it, like it's a manhole cover, the sewage won't come bubbling up. Then it is really real.

My friend chose to die. He chose to die on his own terms as the law gave him permission.
My friend was terminally ill, but his decision was made many years before, as medical poison killed off cells, good and bad. He swore then if he survived he would never endure that treatment again. And twenty-two years later, when cancer invaded for another battle, Weldon Bona would not draw his sword.
Instead he chose to live what time was left as he had always lived. He lived like he was going to die.

weldon bona (photo by steve wadden) 

I knew something was wrong before I was told.
I knew it in the way that those with a long history of friendship know when a pattern has slipped out of place. There was a sudden silence; unreturned calls and messages. Friends who were on the ground told me "You'll have to talk to Bone". I feared what I didn't want to be true.

He wanted to tell us face to face. It was his story to tell and as Weldon did everything, he would do it in his way. I drove to Cape Breton to see him. Friends gathered, talking, questioning, crying. He had an answer for every inquiry, and let us know his plans were already in motion. He would die when he decided it was time.

That night I stayed with him, our heads coming together in the cushioned angle of the large sectional sofa, watching television. In the middle of Coronation Street I started to cry again. He told me "You should be happy for me. We're all dying but most don't know when. I do. The problem is, most people live like they are never going to die. But if you live like you're dying, you have a much richer life".

I carried those words with me, back across the Causeway on that early Autumn day. I carry them closer now.

Christmas came and then the New Year, and finally, the date was set. But circumstance and  the healthcare system had other plans, and when Weldon's case became a glitch,  he became a fly in the ointment, and gave the last fight of his life so that he could die. 

And then it was time.
He threw a party.
It was a gathering of about twenty friends, his inner circle. There was food, wine, champagne. He laid out the remainder of his medical marijuana and wanted everyone to partake. Many of us faked it, not inhaling because we wanted to be clear-headed for what was to come.
Weldon was in great spirits. He was happy that we were all with him, and he even pulled off one final practical joke on a friend. He had set it in motion weeks before, so he was thrilled with the pay-off that sent us all into tear-streaming laughter.

In the late afternoon, Erica, the woman who was going to perform the procedure, came to talk to those of us who were present. She explained what was going to happen.
There would be three needles.
The first would relax the body, and sending him into a very deep and peaceful sleep. That would be the last thing of which he would be aware.
The second needle would freeze the veins. Sometimes the third solution could sting and they wanted no discomfort at all.
The third would paralyze the organs, shutting them down. Shortly after that, his heart would stop.
Throughout the procedure, she would ask him at every step, if he wanted to proceed. He had every chance to change his mind. He assured her that he would not.

Erica asked him what time she should return and he told her 9 PM that night.
Friends continued to arrive and there was more talking, crying, hushed voices, loud laughs. Weldon sat or lay on the sofa, engaging with the group, or talking quietly to one person, or sometimes closing his eyes, maybe sleeping, maybe listening to his hive buzz around him.

At 8.30 I noticed the time and I felt sick. I mentioned to another friend "Oh my god, it's 8. 30". At the same time, I saw Weldon look at his watch and say "Oh my god, it's only 8.30". He was ready.

Erica was prompt. She came in quietly, and made her way to the sofa. Everyone gathered around, although not too close, as Weldon wanted only Erica to be next to him.  The process began with the insertion of IV lines. She told him that once the lines were in, he could take as much time as he needed to talk to his friends and say goodbye. He waved that suggestion away.
"No need. I've said all I need to say. Let's get 'er done. " He was ready.

There are two levels in the loft apartment, and we sat and stood staggered, but together. I was on the upper level, with people in front of me and people behind. Erica explained that she was going to administer the first needle. She asked if he still wanted to go ahead, Weldon said a resounding yes, and then smiling at his friends, he said good night. Voices called out "We love you Bone". "Safe journey, Friend". There was the sound of soft crying, of tissues being separated from each other and pulled from boxes. We waited as our friend drifted away from us, with a smile on his face.

As I sat there, looking at those around me, I was compelled to capture what I saw. I took my phone from my pocket and I took a picture.
This is not something I would have ever considered doing, and certainly not something I would have ever considered posting publicly, except for one thing.
As I sat there, looking at those around me, I realized: This is love.
Our friend slipped out of this world, carried away on our love.

this is what love looks like

It took a few minutes for his heart to finally stop. Erica confirmed his death and the funeral home was called. The only thing I knew I couldn't bear, was to see him leave the apartment. I didn't want to witness them taking him out of there, so a few of us went downstairs to the next level. Sitting on the floor of the hallway that joined the front of the building to the back, we were given a comedic gift that Weldon himself could have orchestrated for our benefit. We listened to the sounds of trying to get his body down three flights of not very wide stairs. The drunkest of friends, and those who didn't fake inhale, decided that they would help "take my buddy out of here". Hearing the discussion and strategy had those of us in the hallway laughing so hard we were sobbing, because your body can't tell the difference between hilarity and heartbreak sometimes.

In a strange way, the most difficult of times of our lives can also be some of the best. This experience was as profound and beautiful as it was heartbreaking. The only thing I can say is that it is the first time in my life I've ever experienced clean grief.

I've lost those I've loved suddenly, and I've watched others linger and suffer. 

In this case, there is a tremendous loss, but there are no "if only's " or "what ifs". There was nothing left unsaid. There is grief, but it is clean. 

The loss is lessened by the reminder that this was Weldon's wish and that while those left behind ache, we must also, as he said, be happy for him.