Overheard

The rest of our stay in the Denver area has us investigating Lakewood, an inner suburb of Denver that includes the new development of Belmar, a successful retrofit of a large old mall site into mixed-use housing and commercial development. Last night we stayed downtown to get a feel for Denver's core, but the fancy conference hotels always cost an arm and a leg. So we jumped on the king-sized bed and used up all the towels and revelled in the high speed internet and strolled along the pedestrian mall with the other tourists and it was grand. But today we had to shove off and have now decamped to much more humble accommodations, closer to Belmar.

You have to love true 'middle America'. This is very obviously the sort of place folks come when they've been caught cheating, and are waiting for their wife to let them back home. Or for the divorce to go through. Either way, overheard at the Extendistay America hotel off State Hwy 6, in Lakeview CO:

"Well, the Hooters is handy." [Right next door, in fact.]

"You know, telling me you 'have to take a big dump' is a completely different piece of information than, 'If you take more than 30 seconds with the bags I'm going to shit my pants' "

And last but not least, our man Turner adding to the local colour, yelling out our door into the parking lot, this gem: "You hear that, Aspen?! Even the Meth Lab Motel on the Interstate bypass has internet! Wireless! For $4.99!"

Categories: City Planning | GeoHope

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Chez Bristowe Turner: Now Asbestos-Free!

Postscript: This post got a little long. I had this little story to tell and then I realized there are all sorts of important little side-stories attached. And so for those of you literateness-disinclined, in the tradition of The Believer, I provide a point-form review. ...So you can pretend you read it when you come over to visit Sloane.

Discussed:

• Zonolite, the viciously carcinogenic insulation found in more than 335,000 Canadian homes
• dreams of Chez Bristowe Turner attic renovation, destroyed
• manual labour, a collapsed lung, and obsessions about our backyard barn
• the Calgary real estate explosion
• light at the end of the asbestos-caked tunnel, and a flicker of hope for the ressurection of the attic plans, and
• ...VICTORY!

There you go. You can come over now and nod sagely when I ask if you've heard the good news about our house. Be advised that the above executive summary is a SUMMARY and also includes a subtle red herring. So you're taking your chances not reading the whole post, but that's your prerogative.   

...So. When we bought this house back in November of '04 '03, it was a strategic decision. I'd been desperate to buy a house for years and years and years, so when I got my government job I socked away half my paycheque, every paycheque, towards my future downpayment. I didn't go out, I'd sworn off the booze until further notice, and my rent & board were covered by Brucio. Basically my only expenses were the exorbitant $11/day parking fee near my building, and my thrice-weekly salad rolls from Vietnam Village around the corner from work.

A few months before the wedding I finally decided enough was enough with living in Douglasdale - what was I going to do, get married and then move back into Dad's basement? - so I went out looking, and chose a house in Ramsay. (This one we live in, as I type, in fact.) I took my savings, plus all the money my parents had given us towards the wedding, and I unrepentantly poured that whole glunk of cash down into the house, right away.

Ahhhhh! Home Ownership, At Last!

I loved the back hallway with its corner cupboard like at my grandparents' house in Thunder Bay on South Hill Street; Turner loved the kitchen. Although by many people's estimations our house was considered "a piece of shit" in "a crappy neighbourhood", I didn't completely agree. I could see that it LOOKED like a piece of shit, and I understood that the neighbourhood had crappy ELEMENTS, but I knew the 50' double lot was a great investment and the house was solid. Plus, I figured we would be here for a year or two, maybe five years on the outside. I had vague plans that we'd flip it and move closer to Inglewood, or Nakusp, or who knows - but at least to a bigger house where we'd start our family.

Nevertheless, the first time I went up in the attic I was THRILLED to discover it was a whole seperate floor! Like, unlike your standard attic with exposed joists and insulation and whatnot, our attic had a real, load-bearing floor. And it had cupboards, closets, painted walls. We asked our neighbours about all this and it turns out that our attic was once the second storey on the house, and about forty years ago the owners closed it in as an attic, poured insulation all over the floor, and removed the stairwell. Why they did this will remain a mystery.

In any case, I suddenly had dreams of renovating the attic. In the UK they call this a "loft conversion" and it's done all the time. In fact there are construction companies and contractors who work exclusively in the field of loft conversions, and sell the whole job as a package. Do you want one room? Two? A bathroom? Skylights? Please peruse our brochure for package rates and fittings options. Etc. I began to talk excitedly with my family about the possibilities, about the increase in the value of the house if we added another 600+ square feet to the place. Think of the vaulted livingroom ceiling! Think of the dormer windows and the extra bathroom! How wonderful!

Then Brother John was poking around in our attic one day, setting up the wireless network, and took a good look all around. Then he came downstairs and called me at work:

   J:    Ash, I think you have zonolite in your attic.

   A:    Heh? What?

   J:    I saw it on The National about two or three days ago. It's this carcinogenic insulation that's in old houses. It looks like wood chips. It's more dangerous than asbestos.

   A:    HEH! WHAT!?

   J:    I didn't touch it, I just looked at it, but I think that's what's on the floor of the attic.

So! What to do? Well, after hanging out the "Gone Fishing" sign on my cubicle door, I got straight on the internet. And it didn't take long to find out all sorts of scary stuff about zonolite, a type of vermiculite insulation used widely in Canada throughout the 1970s and early 80s (it's estimated to be present in more than 335,000 Canadian homes) which is, in some forms, apparently 20x more carcinogenic than asbestos. ...Asbestos being somewhat carginogenic in its own right, you may have heard.

After quietly shitting my pants right there at the desk, I did more research. Turns out having zonolite in the house is okay so long as you don't disturb it. So long as you don't, for example, sweep it up. Which we very nearly did on a few occasions in our enthusiastic visiting-the-attic trips up the ladder to consider the renovation prospects. Later that week I spent some time asking our realtor and a few acquaintances about what it would cost to get the zonolite removed, and everyone estimated the job at $25,000+. My dream of renovating the attic level died a quick, wheezing, mesothelioma death. We decided to blow fibreglass insulation in on top of the zonolite, to extra-insulate the roof, and shut up the attic. Forever, we thought.

I spent the next year getting over the disappointment of losing my vision of a magnificent second story on our home. And finally I turned my attention to our "shed". It's not really a shed. It's more like a small barn. With a root cellar, a greenhouse, electricity and its own ancient furnace, I'd long ago decided that this 700+ sq.ft. wood structure out back of our house would make a perfect office for Turner. We set him up in the basement initially, because our neighbour was storing a great huge heap of wood in our shed, and there was no way to work around it. But the neighbour said he'd get rid of the wood "soon", and we believed him, so we put Turner down the basement while we figured out how to finance the renovation of the barn.

Yes, it's a piece of shit. But you don't even have a piece of shit - you have to envy mine.

With the shift of my mental energies towards the barn came an upswing of energy for clearing it out. Which lead to the February 2005 Great Dump Of The Old Renters' Shit, the disposal of a giant pile of suitcases and general detritus in garbage bags which someone had piled up in the greenhouse (after they'd smashed up half the windows, of course). We'd been hesitant to throw this stuff out, mainly because it was very clearly someone's entire world possessions, including clothes and photos, plus a lot of simple personal crap like old Hallowe'en masks and stickers and a mug from an agriculture company. Garbage to us, but I thought these people would get out of juvie or come back from wherever they'd gone and retrieve this stuff. Letters from grandmas, that kind of thing. I'd come back for it, if it was me.

Anyway, by last spring it was clear no one was ever coming for this shit. So I threw it all out, piles and piles and piles of it going into the back alley for the Tuesday-morning pickup. Besides the general chaos in the greenhouse, there was old dirt and cat poo everywhere, dust and pieces of broken cardboard from where the ceiling had caved in due to water leakage. When I finally reached the clear floor of the greenhouse after hauling all the stuff away, I was sweeping up the extra soil and feathers and shiny flakes of what I figured had to be fertilizer or a strange broken glass substance. But then for some reason, something made me stop. I took a good look at the dirt on the floor, as fibres of insulation floated in the air all around me. And all at once my stomach fell. I looked up: the cardboard ceiling had caved in? Insulation was leaking out? I poked the edge of the hole with my broom. And what was very definitely zonolite trickled over the cardboard edge and fell to the floor.

After I'd run THE HELL out of there, I took off my clothes and threw them away. Then I spent a whole (possibly-hypochondria-induced) afternoon retching and convalescing in the livingroom, although having just done two hours of heavy lifting with no mask in all that dust and accumulated mold, I probably earned myself a temporary lung condition even if the zonolite wasn't working 20x overtime at shortening my life. (I was eight months pregnant and really not in any condition for manual labour, so maybe I should have known better?)

For all intents and further purposes the greenhouse was effectively abandoned, although I rushed in there a few days later with a mask over my face to remove the last of the garbage and to set up our various garden tools on the shelves. Since the window walls are half busted-in, I think there's probably enough ventilation in there to guard against imminent death if we only pop in once a week or so to grab a trowel or the rose food.

So! Having been twice thwarted, do you think all this zonolite dissuaded me? No sir, it did not.

Whenever I was in the barn, I found myself looking at the ceiling. It consisted of painted cardboard, erected from above between the attic joists. I poked at it. It didn't sound like there was anything above it, let alone little wood-chip-type bits of carcinogenic insulation. I don't know why, but I hummed and I hawed and I prowled around out there, during the day and at night with a flashlight, obsessed. I had a hunch about the barn: WHAT IF they'd insulated the greenhouse, but NOT the rest of the barn? Hmmmmm.... But try as I might, I couldn't find a way into the attic. I walked around and around, surveyed the outside walls, stood on tiptoe and pushed repeatedly at what was very obviously the official trap door to the attic, nailed shut from above with about a squillion nails. Even as yet without a route to the upper level, I found myself perusing the books section at Rona and Home Depot, going through the "Garden Cottages" magazines, looking at possible design ideas for when I renovated our barn for Turner.

Because boy oh boy, I was a-gunna renovate that barn for Turner, so help me god. No author husband of mine will be banished to the basement when we've got a perfectly good barn out back just aching to be turned into a writing retreat! Mordechai Richler's third-floor attic office will have nothing on Turner's BARN, thunked I.

...Mostly it was dreaming, I'll admit. We are broke, and we don't gamble, so there are no lottery jackpots coming our way even in theory. I am untrained and basically incapable of starting home renovation projects on my own; I'm enthusiastic, and I'm a willing and energetic worker bee, but when it comes right down to brass tacks, I just don't have the skillz to do stuff myself. Plus, dude: I was fully thinking skylights and new dormer windows and wiring it all up for internet and that kind of thing. Specialized stuff like putting in a bathroom and a loft where guests could stay, and an area for bikes and the lawnmower and tools. Yeah, if it ever happened, it wasn't going to be done by Ashley K. Bristowe in her spare time. And given the budgetary constraints, we were also in no position to out-bid every Tom, Dick and Sanjay in Calgary frothing at the mouth to get in skilled home renovation people.

...But? Then? Calgary's housing market went all apeshit? ...And like? Our house? It rose in value? ...Like, a lot? ...Like, a WHOLE lot?

As any homeowner will tell you, having the price of your house suddenly jump is dizzying and disorienting, but ultimately it's good news. That is, if your house jumps in value relative to the other houses around you. If everybody's house jumps in value, like in Calgary, then everybody now has more equity in their home. Everybody wants to sell their now-more-valuable house and move into a better-but-relatively-cheaper house, to take advantage of the situation. But for most of us, we're living within our means without too much wiggle room. Our mortgages are set in a place that we can (barely) afford, and we can't take on more monthly payments. So it comes as a disappointment when everyone rushes out househunting or goes online to the MLS listings and they all realize they can't afford to move. While YOUR property has jumped in value, EVERYONE'S property has jumped in value, and EVERYONE wants their big new money if they're going to sell. So unless you're going to cash out and move to Nova Scotia, there's really no sane way to upgrade your lifestyle by moving into a different house in the same city. And so everyone comes to the same conclusion: I've got all this new equity in my house, and I can't afford to move anywhere else. ...I know! I'll renovate! That way I can live in a nicer house now, and flip it later! Yes yes. We all know this route.

In general this kind of thinking and activity is good for the overall housing stock. Conditions improve, are upgraded. But everyone is looking to flip and nobody is willing to sell for a bargain. So you can take equity out of your house to renovate, but if the market crashes, you're on the nut for the bigger loan. If the market doesn't crash, you're making your property better - but remember, so is everyone else. It's sort of a single-blind experiment where all the homeowners are the mice, unaware of their also-sprinting competitors.

Now, knowing all this isn't going to stop us. No no no. I have a lather all set to go for home renovation, anyway! Damn the market and its vagarities! I'd pour every last cent into our house, learning how to do stuff, if we had the capital. Tiling the floors by myself! (Probably rather badly.) Framing the basement! (Ditto on the badly.) Etcetera!

About a month ago we started talking to Brucio about building a deck on the back of the house. I think Dr. Bristowe had finally had enough of sitting crookedly on our uneven back "lawn" (I shudder to think you might be picturing a manicured garden of grass.... noooooooo) perched sideways on his own old, peeling lawn chairs (we're not shy about accepting family hand-me-downs, you may have heard). So he snapped one day and the idea of putting on a deck was set in motion. Our deck-building friends arrive on Monday: deckwarming party to follow in early July.

This process evolved into further discussions about Brucio investing in our house as a partner, to improve the house in general of course, but also to make some money if/when we ever sell it. We're talking painting the stucco, replacing the windows, maybe doing new front steps, fixing the gate, and so on. Meanwhile we were also perusing the housing listings, trying to ascertain if we were truly fucked in the moving-onward-moving-upward process of finding ourselves a house that might not be right beside the 7-11, for example. Only the barest attempt at cursory research revealed that yes indeed, we are never, ever in our lifetimes, going to ever be able to afford to sell our house. Unless we are picking up and leaving Alberta with our lives and profit, which we aren't doing anytime soon, or so goes the plan.

Anyway, in the midst of finding out the market value of our house (a terrifying number too large to count, really) and planning these investment-renovations with Brucio, and actively looking at some of the other real estate options nearby (too small, or too expensive), the zonolite problem re-appeared in my brain. When it was going to cost $25,000 and we owned a house worth X number of dollars, it was simply out of the question. But now that we own a house worth X plus the drastic and terrifying appreciation, suddenly it might not be such a crazy idea. I got on the horn and arranged for an asbestos remediation company to come and assess our house.

Could be that we have no problem whatsoever. I doubted it, but could be. Like, in theory. But in any case, I priced the zonolite remediation (removal and air quality guarantee) and it came in at about $10-15 per square foot + $350/day air quality monitoring. Which brings the price tag of getting it the hell out of our ceiling at between $11-15K (the earlier estimates had been a bit high). So... then let's say we put in a few windows, a skylight, a wall or two, some plumbing and electrical, paint, and a stairwell. Maybe even a little second-story balcony landing on the back. In this scenario we've increased the square footage of our house by at least 800 sq.ft. and put in another bathroom and a bedroom, all for the investment of about $35,000 - 60,000, give or take.

Does it seem extreme to dump that much money into my ugly-much house? Well sure. But it begs the question: could I buy a different Calgary house that's 2000 square feet, and has four bedrooms and two bathrooms, for a mortgage price I can afford? Abso-smurfly not, not in a hundred years, and not even way out in the suburbs. Right downtown on a double lot? Sure, that'll be your first born child plus your nuts. No way.

OR: or, or, or, putting in a bit of elbow grease and investment into the barn to renovate it into an office for Turner. This project wouldn't raise the value of the house/property to the same degree (if at all), but I think it would actually be easier, besides feeling like a gigantic accomplishment. I love the idea of Turner toodling out to the renovated shed, mason jar fulla whisky in hand and all them clever words in his head. I get all shivery and excited about providing that space for Turner to work. He loves his basement office, but I know that once we had the barn all fitted out how he liked it, I'd never convince him to move, not ever. We'd live on Spiller Road for all the livelong days of our lives, prying it only out of our cold, dead hands.

So suffice to say, I finally called in the remediation people. And they came a few days ago. And lemme tell you, we got all kinds of value for our money.

Worth the price of admission, Point 1: Sean, the very nice asbestos remediation man and Dave, the very nice environmental engineer guy were interesting, polite, engaged in the process, and not in a hurry. If I'm paying you (or I might end up paying you for your grotesquely expensive and specialized services), I don't want you to act like you're doing me a favour. And these guys didn't. Contact me for a recommendation if you need either asbestos remediation at your own home, or any kind of environmental engineering-type stuff - they were professional and very reasonably priced; free consultation is the best kind of consultation, sez I.

Worth the price of admission, Point 2: Turns out there is no insulation in the barn attic, whatsoever! (No wonder it's so goddamn cold in there!) And we know that because...? Because Dave, the (tall) environmental engineer guy managed to figure out that I was pushing on the wrong side of the attic hatch. It's on hinges! And I was pushing on the wrong side! Those squillion nails weren't holding it down, they're holding it together! We put up a ladder and lo and behold we found... more of our neighbour's wood! (That he claimed, to my face, the other day that he had no idea how to get into the barn's attic is something I'm now calling into question...) But: Nothing Else! No zonolite! No lab testing necessary! (The greenhouse is insulated seperately, just as I suspected.)

HURRAY!!!

Worth the price of admission, Point 3: It turns out that only about half of the zonolite found in Calgary homes contains asbestos. Given the internet sleuthing I'd done (and we all know how dependable the internet is when it comes to verifiable, abso-toot-ly true "facts"), I had definitely given up hope that what was up in our attic could possibly NOT be terrifyingly toxic. I'd even had a huge temper tantrum on the electrician who installed our bathroom ceiling fan last year because he wasn't being 100% diligent about keeping zonolite from falling down through the hole as he worked. But here were these asbestos-industry guys standing in my kitchen telling me that we basically had a 50-50 chance of getting away lucky.

Folks, we've established that I'm not a gambler, BUT I LIKE THOSE ODDS!

So they went up into the attic, and they gathered up a giant bag of the zonolite (me hiding around the corner, cringing, imagining the little asbestos fibres floating all around us and getting sucked into Sloane's lungs), and took it away for testing. They also tested the drywall paste, since if you don't already have enough to worry about as a homeowner, it turns out that basically everything used in construction prior to 1980 may or may not have contained asbestos, particularly drywall paste. You're just in a game of Russian roulette to see whether or not YOUR house has it. So they took some chunks of drywall for good measure, and I wrote a cheque for $140 to cover the lab work, and we all shook hands and wished each other luck (luck for me = no asbestos in the house; luck for them = attic stuffed full of asbestos, ching-ching, giant remediation project!).

A few days passed. And then we came home on Friday to a message on the answering machine from Dave, environmental engineer guy. All the samples came back negative. He was preparing an official report for me and would send it in the mail, but the jist of it is this: NO ASBESTOS.

No. Asbestos. None. The zonolite in our attic is safe. The house is clean.

I stood outside on the lawn, where Turner had brought me the phone. I was just stuck there, looking at the house, contemplating the roofline and the attic, below. Actually, I guess I really didn't believe the news. I'd spent two years thinking that our health was at potential risk, living here. And that we couldn't really invest any energy or funds into the house, because eventually it'd just be torn down. Suddenly this whole world of possibilities was visible. Suddenly it didn't seem so bad to be five doors down from the 7-11.

Turner came back outside. "What're you doing? ...You don't believe it, do you?" No, I didn't.

"Well, believe it, Ash! Best $140 you ever spent, eh? Anything you do to the attic now, starts out $15,000 cheaper than it woulda been. ...Could've been worse! Could've been the carcinogenic insulation you've spent the last couple of years stressing about! Eh?!"

Yes, indeedy. It's starting to sink in that all that worry was for nothing, thank god. And that it's nice to be lucky.

Categories: Ash | Calgary | City Planning | Family | House

Comments [2]

Honest Ode To Ramsay

About a week ago I received an email from some cool folks in Toronto, looking to move back to Calgary after many years away. Sounds like they're looking at Ramsay as a possible staging ground for their return to this city, with the intention of avoiding suburbia and hopefully finding something similar to their super neighbourhood in Toronto.  

Hi Ashley,

I came across the post about the rendering plant on your blog when I 
was researching the community of Ramsay.

My name is [name removed].  I'm an ex-pat Calgarian now living in 
Toronto with my wife, and our 14 month old daughter.

I thought I'd write you to ask your thoughts on raising a family in 
Ramsay.  Seems from your blog that it's a nice place to be.

We are considering returning to Calgary after five years in Toronto, 
but the thought of living in suburbia is, well... unthinkable.  We 
have really gotten used to the community spirit of living in a dense 
residential environment, especially in our neighbourhood of 
[inner-urban community in Toronto near Lawrence and Eglinton],                                                                        

which is full of young, smart, creative people, who are 
raising families.  We're in an amazing mom's group, there are several 
playschool co-op centres, parks, cafes...  It's the kind of 
neighbourhood where you go for a walk and keep bumping into people 
you know.

So I'm trying to figure out where we would live if we come back to 
Calgary.  I grew up in [near-northeast middle-class community in Calgary]

so I know the loneliness of the 
suburban teenager...  I've driven through Ramsay on my last few 
visits home and got the feeling that it's one of the only 
neighbourhoods in Calgary that compares to what we have here in 
Toronto.  I like the look of the creative folks roaming the streets, 
the pretty streets, and the cute houses that give the place a very 
inviting feeling.  We would consider living there.

So, if you have a second, maybe you could tell me about Ramsay and 
what the community offers to young families.  Are there good 
preschools?  Are the inhabitants progressive, creative people?  And 
do you know if the city is planning any development projects in the 
area that might compromise the neighbourhood?  Do you get used to the 
smell?

Thanks, glad I found your blog. 

While I complain periodically about the local drug scene (found another crack pipe by the newspaper box across the street yesterday), and the folks dragging all their worldly possessions up and down the sidewalk in front of our house (periodically peeing on my neighbours' steps, true enough), and it's accurate to say that the smell of the Liliydale factory is, some days, pretty gross, I have a lot of good things to say about Ramsay too. So I figured I'd post my reply to these fine people, for the rest of you Canadians looking at the Alberta economy with wistful longing. To pique your interest, likesay. Calgary may well be a city of 990,000 that sprawls over the geographic area of Delhi (a city of 14 million), and a large portion of the population does reside in the sprawl of blandified pink suburbia chewing up the prairie in every direction. But there are some pockets of urban living here, too, and certainly Ramsay's one such example.  

So here's my reply, which became a sort of Ode to Ramsay, Calgary's wrong-side-of-the-tracks hidden gem community. Read on:

Hey there. We lived in Toronto for a long time - at Gerrard & Broadview, and on Roncesvalles, and my husband put in time on Vaughan Road for a while, way back. I'm a reluctant returnee-to-Calgary after growing up here (Bonavista - I know what you mean about the lonely suburban teenagerdom) and fleeing for university. I built my adult life in Ontario and overseas, and was based in Toronto for the rest of my life, so I thought. Like, I was NEVER coming back to Calgary. Somehow, it happened anyway.

I bought in Ramsay for a couple of reasons. I'm a housing planner, but you don't need any special training to look at a map of Calgary to see that all the inner city housing is either waaaay out of anyone's sane range (Kensington & Mission), completely condo-ridden and full of drunk kids (the Beltline), the eyries of Mount Royal, or... Inglewood/Ramsay. Even this area is getting a bit crazy price-wise now, but we bought in two years ago just before things went totally insane. If you are coming from Toronto you'll be satisfied with the size of houses on the market for <$300K than the new Calgarians who need 2000 sq. ft. pink McMansions in order to feel at peace with the world - those people drive through here and see a slum, I think. But then, they can have their homogenized suburbs as far as I'm concerned, too. So I suppose we're even?  

"The Barns" of 18th Ave SE

While Ramsay may well have been a vacant ghetto fifteen years ago when we were growing up in Calgary, things have changed a lot since then. When I was looking to buy I knew this area would be a sound investment, I could walk to work (my job was downtown, then), and most importantly, I could afford a down payment here. Also, my dad lives in Douglasdale (the DEEP south), so the Deerfoot corridor is well-known to me and allows us quick access to areas of the city where I grew up, where I can navigate blindfolded. Plus my dad can easily drop by on his way home from work. And my brother ended up buying the house three doors down from us a few months after we moved here, so overall it's turned out to be a great location for us in terms of proximity to family.

Sloaner and Uncle Jah (aka Brother John) on point.

Ramsay is a bit down-at-heel in comparison to Inglewood next door; Ramsay's houses are of slightly lower quality, the commercial development isn't cohesive, you hear stories about drug busts - or see them taking place down the road (just once so far, but you never forget your first real-life SWAT team sighting). But this area is very definitely still in transition. Our neighbours are a bus driver, a carpenter, an electrician, house cleaners, etc. and all fine people, regular folks. However, Ramsay also pulls the creative folks to an extent - people who work at Critical Mass, One Yellow Rabbits, the puppeteers of Green Fools and Old Trouts and CAOS, my husband is a writer and I'm a photographer, there are massage therapists and painters and so on. I'm sure there are creatively-minded people living everywhere in Calgary, but because Ramsay is so raw, it's easier to uncover the public dribbles of obvious effort spilling over the landscape. As one of the oldest areas of Calgary, Ramsay has fewer controls on what colour you can paint your house and people are happy to hang public sculptures on their garage frames for everyone to enjoy as they rumble up the back alleys. There are prayer flags, and people trying their hand at haphazard self-taught home renovations, and weird cars, and violently snarly dogs running along (thankfully solid) fences, dogs that would never last in a more upscale neighbourhood.

There's no nearby large-scale grocery store, which is a big pain in the ass - but the Safeway in Mission is a short drive or a long walk, or for better selection we go across Deerfoot to the Forest Lawn Co-op. Hope springs eternal that someone will finally put a proper grocery in somewhere in Inglewood so we can shop locally, but a big condo project (that might have shifted things in that direction, services-wise, in Inglewood) just fell through due to water table issues, so for now the antiques stores and ridiculously-upscale furnitureplaces hold sway down 9th Ave there and we still have to drive to get proper groceries. So there are good things about Ramsay, but there are also things I'm looking forward to, when it gentrifies a bit more.

Thrown aside as "garbage", this perfectly good crack pipe. Some people, y'know?

As I'm typing this I realize that while I can give you a good overview of the community, I should mention that we work away from Calgary for about a third of the year, every year, in short bursts of two weeks to two months, all year round. Due to these kinds of schedule disruptions we haven't fully dug in to the neighbourhood, and I think we aren't as invested as we probably could, or perhaps should, be. I think this will change for us when Turner starts the writing portion of his current book (www.thegeographyofhope.com) - right now we're still in research mode. In the fall he'll start writing and we'll be here for a good long seven-month stretch, and I think that'll change things for us here in that respect. In theory we're very community oriented and I know what you mean about wanting those Toronto-type things in Calgary, but aside from a few community meetings and kids' birthday parties, we haven't really gotten properly involved, so I'm speaking mainly from our everyday experiences here, and what I hear from the other people we know in the area -- and from all this, Ramsay is known to be a fairly cohesive community and I don't dispute that claim, particularly for Calgary. Even having been around and out in the yard for the last month I've met tons of people our age new to the community, seeking just what you and I are: an established neighbourhood in the city's core. Certainly Ramsay has that going for it, in spades.

Looking north up Bellevue Avenue, the ridge of Renfrew visible in the distance.

I don't think I need to warn you that there is nowhere in Calgary that functions like a Toronto neighbourhood except perhaps Kensington, especially with the real estate market being so insane for the last few years and people flipping and moving and flipping and moving, not being grounded in one place. But there's also the car love of Calgary and the empty downtown (this latter is changing, but slowly). So I would be concerned that your abiding satisfaction and pleasure in your current Toronto community which may not be wholly replicable here. If you move back to Calgary you obviously have to be prepared to try to find the things that Calgary has, specifically, to offer, and exploit those aspects of life here, mercilessly. (I.e. suck it up and get a cowboy hat, etc.) Otherwise you'll go nuts missing Toronto and castigating Calgary for being so... not Toronto. In so many ways. 

Historic Ramsay school (Calgary's oldest) was recently saved from Calgary's land-grabby and demolition-happy City Council by parents who locked themselves to the building's doors and protested day and night. ...Score one for the good guys.

However, having said all that - you will certainly be able to afford something in Ramsay before the other inner city areas, and there's a great deal to recommend this community. The truly spectacular Crossroads Market (a farmer's market/antiques garage sale) is right here, open every Friday, Saturday and Sunday - way better than St. Lawrence Market, you slalom Hutterite and Punjabi farmers on your way in to buy just-arrived Quebec maple syrup from the honey-selling guy in the overalls, Ukrainian ladies are hawking holipche and perogies out of coolers next to the German deli which is across from the Calgarian/Guatemalan butcher (best lamb in the city)... there's also an awesome cheese store that I slavishly worship, having become addicted to their cave-aged gruyere; upstairs is ArtSpace, and the new headquarters of the world-famous Loose Moose Theatre (originators of Theatresports). Lindsay Park sports complex (the "Talisman Centre" now) is very close by. There are parks, and family-run corner stores. People are building amazing R2000 and funky houses. The local school has a very committed parent network and community connection, and the changeable sign out front of the school regularly regales drivers with cute messages; last week it was "Welcome to Ramsay: Be Nice!". However, if you would rather send your kids somewhere else, Ramsay kids do qualify to attend Earl Grey, the elementary school in Mount Royal. There's a great daycare at the Alex Centre on 9th Ave that I just toured the other day, and I put Sloane on the waiting list so she can enter in September (care starts at 19 mo.) -- high ceilings, Waldorf-based, huge playground, etc., everything I remember from my wee years elsewhere. There is a tech-and-creative corridor developing along 12th Ave where Avenue and Up! magazines are based, media companies, tech people, a violin maker, etc. are in place and becoming fixtures. The zoo is just over the river from Inglewood, walking distance. The river pathway system is amazing, and you can watch the (deafening) fireworks from atop Scotsman Hill during Stampede with a huge gaggle of everyone else from the community, and people who drive in from elsewhere in Calgary, besides.  

Looking south along the bluffs of Scotsman's Hill, the edge of Stampede Park visible in the bottom right of the photo.

...I'll mention the trains because they're a reality of the neighbourhood -- I love the trains, the sound of them in the evening. After Sloane was born last year we took our bedframe out of the room so we'd be closer to the basket height for nighttime feedings, and we could feel the vague-but-discernable rumble of the shunting trains through the futon mattress late at night. There are five ways to get "out" of Ramsay into the surrounding city and this is a blessing because for all the romance of their soundscape, the trains can be a crick in the bum in terms of blocking off various main arteries in and out of the community at inconvenient (and unpredictable) times of day. But I think that if you buy a house in the north end of Ramsay, the trains are a great deal louder, day in and day out, than they are in this area (Spiller Road and Scotsman's Hill). There are tradeoffs either way - that area is closer to the shops of Inglewood. You'll have to drive around and see what you prefer.

[photo of "train blocking traffic and people having temper tantrums in their cars": coming soon]

Typical scene at the corner of Portland and 12th/11th, kitty-corner to the Shamrock.

If you're in any way gardening-inclined, this neighbourhood has some of the best soil in the city, and Inglewood/Ramsay has a microclimate due to the Elbow-Bow confluence, which often makes it anywhere from 1 to 5 degrees warmer here than in other areas of town. There're tennis courts up the hill, and an old-timey outdoor covered rink where guys play shinny on Saturdays in the wintertime. And in the city's official plan, the Lilydale plant is slated to be replaced by a Ctrain station in 2012 or 2015 or something, so in any case there's going to be public light rail transit very close by in the foreseeable-though-not-immediate future. In the meantime we have lots of great bus routes that run through the community, including two routes called the Inner City Loop that circle in opposite directions, bringing people to Erlton station or to downtown -- very, very convenient for going down to Stephen Avenue for dinner if you don't want to drive and have enough pluck to deny yourself the $7 cab ride. (After growing up down south, where it was $38-45 to come home by cab from the bar, $7 seems ridiculously affordable and Ill admit that we often cave in to calling a taxi.)

The Alberta Grocery - where you can get, uh, groceries and videos, and a wide selection of lottery tickets. Very typical prairie-style general store facade (original).

So while in some respects I urge you to abandon all hope ye people moving from Toronto who enter here (Calgary, and Alberta in general) , there's certainly a lot to recommend this area and Ramsay in particular. Just make the best possible decision given your needs and proclivities and financial situation, and then throw yourself headlong into community life wherever you settle, and hope for the best.

In any case, let us know when you move back and we'll have you over to dinner on our new back deck. Sloane
is only a month younger than your daughter - she'll show her the trampoline.

All the best, A

Categories: Calgary | City Planning | House

Comments [1]

History Lessons

Years ago, and I'm talking years and years ago now – like, probably 15 years ago – John Johnston was on his way across Canada. At Winnipeg he decided to do a day trip to Fort Garry. The guide was dressed, as guides often are at Canadian sites of Historical Importance, in period costume (as a blacksmith, as I recall). They were taking a trip back to 1875, and everyone was given an explanation of Fort Garry's importance – in westward expansion, in trade and policing, and as an administrative centre for what was, at that time, Metis country and bald prairie.

The guide explained that the Fort was an important, working, nearly self-sufficient community, and everyone living there had to have something to offer – no layabouts or loafers, no dead weight. And then he looked around the group. "As newcomers, you have to have something to offer. It's 1875 here at Fort Garry: what skills do you have that could be of any use to us?"

The group looked around, one to another. The Winnipeggers of the group were a buncha lumpy civil-servant descendants of Ukrainians and Scots, most probably. The German and Japanese tourists hoped to hide behind the language barrier. Shuffle-shuffle went the feet, the feet of late 20^th century occupants of the first world: service industry paper pushers, none of them could shoe horses, or read the weather for farming, or build anything that didn't come with instructions from Ikea. Of this big group of people, nobody could think of anything they’d have to offer to the 19^th century frontier.

And then John – good man, our JJ, as always - stepped forward. In his best cockney shipboy accent: "I kin read n' write, sir!"

The blacksmith exploded, laughing: "…Yes! Excellent! We always need people who can read – most of us here are illiterate and they’re always sending orders from Ottawa that we can't figure out. …Anyone else?"

...When we got to Bangkok, I thought it'd be good to pick up some work while I was here... some editing would be great. Lots of NGOs and international agencies in town, it shouldn't be too hard. Well, you should watch what you wish for, because thanks to Phet's networking, within a month I'd landed two contracts. Now I'm neck deep in the thick of it and wondering what the hell I was thinking, taking on work when there's markets to be explored and Thai food to eat, and a swimming pool to enjoy and all the wonders of Bangkok lying here at my feet. (In short, I'm an ungrateful wretch!)

John's quip has been bouncing around and around in my head, but in my voice the tone is more whiney and snivelly: I sure put my foot in it - I can read and write, sir!

Categories: Ash | Asia 2006 | City Planning | Work work work

Comments [3]

Dreamy dreams

Ash and Turner are headed south down Blackfoot, en route to Douglasdale for Sunday family dinner.

A:   Sooooooo. How are you?

T:   Heh?

A:   How are you, what's going on?

T:   Nothing. Driving, here.

A:   [looking around, bored] Sooooo...

T:   This is trouble, I can feel it. Stop while you still can.

A:   I don't know what you're talking about. I say, "How are you?" and you say, "I'm fine", and we have a lovely ride. See, but you have to parTICipate. Like, for example, I say "what's going on?" and then you proceed to tell me all sorts of interesting things. ...Ok, go.

T:   [sighs. It's been a long and frustrating work day at Chez Bristowe Turner, even though it's Sunday. Turner's nerves are shot.]

A:   [Looks out the window for a bit.]

Driving, still driving. Negotiating the Blackfoot south-Glenmore east-Deerfoot south ramps. And then:

A:   Sooooooo. Um, so. ...SO! Uhhhh.... what was your bad dream about last night? I didn't get to hear about it. You were starting to tell me this morning but we got interrupted.

T:   Ah... nothing. No - it, it was complicated.

A:   Cinematic, you said.

T:   ...Yeah. And... complicated. One of those complex ones. 

A:   Scary? Was it scary?

T:   Well, not so much scary. Just...

A:    Scary, right? Bad dreams are the worst, I know. [nodding vigorously]

T:   ...

A:   Was it snakes?

T:   No.

A:   Spiders?

T:   No.

A:   Sharks?

T:   [sighs]

A:   Hmmmmmm. It was sharks, wasn't it. Yep yep yep, I know those dreams. Scary! Hm hm hm.

T:   [sighs]

A:   ...Was it ...the one? where it's night? and you fall into a pool and the shark is way down at the bottom of the pool [makes fish swimming motions with her hands] sort of swimming back and forth all menacingly...

T:   No.

A:   Or? was it the one where there's the shark? and it's all, [makes claws with hands, opens mouth all wide, baring teeth] RAAAR! ...That one?

T:   No. Lookit...

A:   ...Or, or or or, or was it the one, where, the shark? It's in the water? And you...

T:   Lookit, these are your scary dreams, you idiot! You're just bibbling nonsense at yourself, here. You're not even talking to me.

A:   [miffed] Hm. You're a bad person. I'm just sitting here making conversation.

T:   Uh huh.

They are passing the new "Deerfoot Meadows" big-box development where they filled in a perfectly nice wetland where deer used to graze and ducks swams and so on, so that Ikea and Linen's n' Things could have yet another colony in Calgary.

A:   [pointing, poking the window] ...You see that? That "Deerfoot Meadows" bullshit there? I spent half my life there last night. That's where I went when I left to go shopping. I had a list, and I went to just about every bullshit place there. [Poking the window accusingly, now] And they didn't have any of the shit on my list. ...They didn't have the clear circle marbles I was going to make the fridge magnets with, and they didn't have the black puffy hangers. You know the sweater hangers? [Turner is ignoring her] They didn't have them. They just had white and beige, those fuckers. And while I was standing there looking at the hanger display, the basket I was carrying - you know those "please take a basket for your convenience" baskets? One of those - like, it BIT my jacket and took a chunk out of the exterior, under the arm, here: see? [lifting arm, pointing at the rip, trying to show Turner while he's driving. Turner doesn't look. Ashley keeps going] And I was like For The Love Of God, no black puffy hangers and now the fuckin' basket EATS my new coat. ...So you know what I did? I just put that basket down right there. None of that helping-out, taking-it-back-to-the-front bullshit for me. No no no. I just put the basket right down, right there near the hangers. Because, like, they didn't have the hangers I wanted anyway, so I wasn't going to buy anything. Especially after the basket BIT my jacket. Like, right!

T:   Uh huh.

A:   ...See, you could tell me interesting stories like that. You see?

T:   [sighs] Truly rivetting, that one.

A:   Ok. Your turn. Go.

Categories: City Planning | Married Life

Comments [0]

Ash & Sloane's Long March

Yesterday Sloaner and I went up to the University of Calgary to do a bit of research at the library. Sloaner was superbo in the stacks, hanging onto the side of the carrel as I skimmed through the books I needed, and smiling like mad at the people in the lineup for the photocopier. I had a bit of trouble trying to figure out the online periodical index and had to actually go and ask for help (wherein I ended up having to use the phrase, "I graduated in 1996 and things have changed a lot since then," and was met with a sympathetic nod from the balding Gen-X'er behind the desk). Then Sloane started to squawk and the low-rise-jeans-and-sideways-hat-wearing kids-who-were-in-kindergarten-when-I-started-university began to stare, so we vamoosed and got a falafel at Mac Hall.

We did a bit of reflection on how much things have changed and not changed on campus in ten years (although I didn't attend U of C, in high school I spent my fair share of time drunk at Bermuda Shorts Day and volunteering at Rock Against Racism upstairs from the Black Lounge), and Sloane entirely agreed with me that there is far too much retro-80s clothing on the kids these days. And I truly feel that piping in Peter Cetera and old Phil Collins is deeply unnecessary. Whenever I'm out shopping now it's like warping back to dances at Nickle Junior High. And y'all, those were terrible, terrible days. I feel I should be compensated by society for having to endure that music again, just as I'm finally over the trauma of my early teens.

Anyway, after lunch Sloane fell clunkingly asleep in the backpack, and I headed to the C-train station. But in a fit of ...inspiration? ...foolishness? I decided to keep going over the Crowchild bridge and down into the community. I figured we'd walk home. Yep, walk. It's about fifteen kilometres from U of C to Chez Bristowe Turner, I figgered. I bet we can be home by dinner, easy, I thought.

So away we went. Walk walk walk. Through Banff Trail, through Capitol Hill - that part of Calgary is on a partial grid with numbered streets, so I knew I wouldn't lose my way. I set my trajectory roughly parallel to 16th Avenue, the Trans-Canada corridor through the city. After about half an hour I switched to walking in the alleyways, always the more interesting way to see a community in this city (which excels at making streetscapes as bland and soulless as possible). I found an old tennis ball along the way, and kicked it for a few kilometres. Walked past a guy building a 15' stone waterfall in his backyard. Saw a poppy garden in seed, lots of raspberry bushes finished for the year, and a bare-chested old man in dress shoes and pressed trousers painting the worn bits of his fence.

By about 10th St NW I was pretty tired. Sure, I was an athlete in high school, but the whole nine years of university followed by desk jobs and then the pregnancy+motherhood thing has taken a lot out of my body in the interim. I'm a flabby and untoned shell of my former self, in fact, although nobody informed the ambition part of my brain about the new physical state at any time along the downward slide. Turner'll tell you that I get myself into these situations with some regularity, the walking tooooo far. And I'll call home from wherever the hell I've ended up (in Kentville town after walking in 10km at 6am last summer with Pony, at the Antigonish town limits a few months ago with Sloane, downtown Calgary, etc.) and sort of whine, "Uhhhhh! I walked too faaaar! Come an' get meeee." And Turner will come and get me.

Aha, but Turner was going to be out doing errands until 6pm, that was the plan. And it was nowhere near 6pm. I considered my options: backtracking to a C-train station, getting a cab, or making a try for Alexis' house in Crescent Heights. I decided on the last option. We had to deek into an A&W on 16th to feed and change Sloane, give her a break from the backpack, and get some water, but then it was only a few more blocks to Alexis' house, where I figured I could wait out Turner and get him to pick us up whilst visiting with my lovely friend. Alas, said lovely friend wasn't home, so we sat on the porch for a while, checked out the new adventures in gardening Alexis has undertaken this year, and surveyed the state of her new deck. All in order but still no Alexis, we decided to push for home.

Off we went, headed south now through the lovely community of Crescent Heights. (So lovely, in fact, that I went directly to MLS.ca that night to check out the for sale listings in the area, hoping we could trade up from Ramsay to such a pretty, well-groomed and kid-friendly area in which we already have a nice friend. ...Sadly, no.) Past the high school. Over to Centre Street, and down down down the hill to the bridge, passing the running-shoe'd walking wounded commuters from the downtown towers making their way home after work. Into Chinatown, through the old 'hood from when I worked at Canadian Heritage. And finally, to the C-train line on 7th Ave.

I was PRITTY tired by that point, I tell you. Sore back. Sloane a bit pissed and cranky. Thirsty, both of us.

So we caught the C-train and sat down in the Priority Seating area right near the door. There was a young man, perhaps 23 or 24, sitting on the same bench. Had a few earrings, reading an alterna-mag of some sort. Exactly of the demographic that generally ignores all babies. But he looked at Sloane, and then did a double-take. She looked at him. They looked at each other. And then the hipster Calgary boy says, "Wow. What a perfect baby... like, her head is perfect! Her eyes are huge!" He seemed genuinely impressed. I was like, Uh, thanks. But really, Ow my aching feet, etc., was what I was actually thinking. The guy is still looking at Sloane, though. And she's still looking at him. And then he says to her, suddenly, "...You're not supposed to be so intelligent! You know exactly what I'm thinking!" Now, at this point I know what you're thinking: this guy was high. But he wasn't. He was just sitting there, all normal, just commuting like the rest of us, but probably having his first sitting-near-an-alert-baby experience. He introduced himself to Sloane (not me): My name is Dale, he says, and yammered away unselfconsciously to her for the rest of our journey. Sloane, for her part, continued to stare at him while chewing methodically on my scarf, giving a few well-timed eyebrow twitches, serving only to further convince Mr. Dale that Sloane was the all-knowingest and all-seeingest baby of all time. I didn't try to disillusion him - I do like to think Turner and I have produced an other-worldly genius, of course.

We hopped out at Erlton ("Bye-bye Sloane!" calls Dale), just in time to see the bastard 433/403 minibus driver pull away from the station. What kind of jackass driver leaves the station just as the C-train is disengorging passengers? A jackass bastard driver, that's what. I think the very long walk was affecting my empathy centre despite the nice train interlude of Dale's fond appreciation for Sloane in all her Sloaneness - for lo, did I despise the 433/403 driver in those moments as I watched him speed away.

Sighing and hoping that 5:45pm was close enough to 6pm to mean Turner would answer the phone, I called the husband, who was luckily just pulling up in front of the house after a long and productive afternoon of pre-Denmark errands. He came to get us in a jiffy, and we finally made it home, more than four hours after we'd left the university.

Me, I was pooped. Needed a foot rub like mad. Needed a low-back rub like mad. Needed a bath. Ate a quarter of the roast chicken from the grocery store just standing there at the stove like a wild-eyed hobo. I walked toooo faaaar! I said to Turner, in a kind of faraway nearby zone. He says, You always do this. You always walk too far. 

I knowwwww, I said. But I walk and walk and then I walk tooo farrr. I can't help it! ...Ow my aching feet.

I started at the University of Calgary, the X at the top left of the image above.

A: Found the tennis ball

B: Backyard waterfall under construction

C: Naked old guy painting his fence in dress shoes

D: A&W pit stop

E: Lovely community of Crescent Heights

F: Uphill-trudging commuters on the Centre Street bridge

I blessedly caught the C-train downtown on 7th Ave. at the convention centre, the X at the bottom right. Dale meets Sloane, etc. (Erlton Station and bastard 403/433 bus driver not shown).

Categories: Calgary | City Planning | Mom-ness | Sloane | Work work work

Comments [13]

Big Business vs. The Community: Calgary Smackdown

   vs.    

Ramsay has been all in a lather over our neighbourhood chicken plant for some time.

As you may know, as a company, Lilydale processes chicken. Aaaaand… ‘round these parts, the factory isn’t the best neighbour. The main issue here is that the plant stinks like mad at irregular intervals, and the smell actually causes many people to be physically ill when they’re outside in it.

But aside from the stench, they’re heavy-handed with the community, they refuse to pave the road that borders their factory, there are humungous trucks full of live chickens blocking up the intersection and regularly denting parked cars. You don’t even have to be remotely crunchy to feel a bit squeamish about a truck full of panic-eyed factory-farm chickens stacked fifteen cages high rolling through the community. Sure, okay, we should all be aware of where our food comes from, and I’m not claiming any kind of holier-than-thou vegan lifestyle here; I eat meat. But I defy even the most stoic of human omnivores among us to remain impassive while four hundred chickens roll, smelly and clucking, past your kid’s soccer field (mid-game), on their way to slaughter. Riiiiight. See? Not so nice.  

People really don’t like the chicken plant. And this is one of those funk-ifying inner-city communities where people actually take action on stuff, band together. A telling sight: today there was a huge tent erected in the soccer field across the street from the plant. There was a great deal of food and pop out on tables. It was a picnic, presumably held in the spirit of Stampede, for the community. There was a sea of empty chairs, with three lonely Lilydale people sitting to one side. …No one came. No one from the community came to that free barbeque. Despite politicized convictions, people in general don’t usually turn down free food. Yeah. The residents of Ramsay really don’t like that chicken factory.

Now, earlier this year, Lilydale decided they needed to expand their operations a bit. In conjunction with the city planning department, there were some community meetings. Lilydale representatives showed up in plush leather jackets, the Calgary businessman’s fashion shorthand for “richer than you and unrepentant”. (With oil up at $60 a barrel, there are a lot of uninsightful jackasses in beautiful leather coats walking the streets of this city.) At the meeting we attended, one guy talked. They other guy sat around, ostensibly in charge of the video projector, though he couldn’t get it past the start screen (someone came out of the crowd to fix it). They didn’t want to talk about the smell from the plant, which was just about the only thing on the minds of all the assembled community residents. The Lilydale guys just wanted the community’s blessing for their expansion request, and kept demanding that the meeting “stay on topic”. People got bent out of shape. The Lilydale guys threatened to leave, and said they’d go ahead with the expansion w