The Secret Room At Garneau

I have always loved the adventure of exploring old houses; the kind with creaky stairs, mysterious corners, and at least one cupboard you are absolutely sure leads to buried treasure or a ghost. Some children dreamed of castles. I dreamed of doors that blended into walls and rooms nobody else seemed to notice.

When I was a kid, Mom would visit her sister in Edmonton, near the University of Alberta, where my uncle Tom was the caretaker of the Garneau Community League sports facilities and grounds. To me, this was not simply a community facility. It was an entire kingdom with a skating rink, tennis courts, lawn bowling, and a big hall for group activities, playschool, arts and crafts club. As far as I was concerned, it made it practically an amusement park with better supervision.

Uncle Tom would let us help him or at least try our hand at whatever sport was nearby. “Helping,” of course, is a generous word when children are involved. I am sure we mostly carried things to the wrong place, asked questions at inconvenient times, and believed we were essential staff. Still, he made us feel useful, and that was half the magic.

When no one was around, I would sneak over to the piano in the big hall. That instrument became my private concert stage. On that piano, I learned my first solo; Floyd Cramer’s “Last Date,” the 1960 instrumental. I played it with all the dignity a child can muster, which is to say, very seriously, and probably too loud.

The best part, the absolute grand prize, was staying overnight there with Mom. In the 1960s, we would climb a long stairway to my aunt and uncle’s residence above the facility. It wasn’t very large, probably not even 1,000 square feet. When you walked in, there was a large kitchen, then a hallway with doors on the right side that opened into bathroom and another into one small bedroom. Through the hallway was the living room. It was cozy, efficient, and full of grown-up conversation; the kind that makes children suddenly become professional spies.

My favourite room was a little cubbyhole with a door hidden in the hallway across from the bedroom. You couldn’t see the door at all because the slatted wallboard camouflaged it perfectly, and there was no handle on the outside. This was not merely a small room. This was a secret room. A spy headquarters. A royal chamber. A hideout worthy of children who had done absolutely nothing suspicious but felt the need to hide anyway.

I would sleep in there when we stayed overnight. Inside, there was only a small bed and a chair, which meant the decorating theme was “mystery.” The light switch was a chain hanging from the light on the far side of the bed, so when bedtime came, you had to turn off your own light like a brave pioneer heading into the unknown. Then, darkness. Complete darkness. No windows. No hallway glow. Nothing. If more than one of us kids were with Mom, we were tucked away in a tiny secret cave, probably whispering and giggling when we were supposed to be sleeping.

You could hear the adults visiting, laughing, and telling stories in the other room. Most of the time, they were completely oblivious to our presence, which only added to the thrill (except my mom who had eyes in the back of her head). We were invisible! Silent observers! Practically undercover agents in pajamas. And when I opened that hidden door and stepped into the hallway, I startled more than one unsuspecting person.

Looking back, I realize that little hidden room was probably nothing fancy to the adults. Just a clever use of space. But to us, it was pure wonder; a secret tucked inside a hallway, a childhood adventure with a door you couldn’t see.

That residence was demolished and rebuilt in the 1980’s and it was modern and lovely, with no secret compartments. Houses can be rebuilt but the magic we found in that old secret place stayed with us. It kept a piece of our childhood hidden safely inside our memories.