Once a home filled with love, now a former Hells hangout

When the house at 2679 Scotia St. was built, its architect and owner had only a single child, a boy.

But he and his wife knew they wanted to fill their modern home with family. A girl, a boy and the baby, another girl, were quickly born. They were a large and loving family and they needed a house that, at 2,900 square feet, was bigger than anything most people could have imagined.

It was to hold them, their church friends, professional acquaintances and all the others who gravitate to really decent people.

There was an outdoor pool (who knew riverbank erosion would try to claim it?) and decks and a barbecue and all the requirements of a 1960s dream home. You'd swim in the clear, blue waters of the pool and see the murky river just beyond.

It was a Narnia-like setting, trees hiding the outside world and so much room for restless children to play and wander.

Maybe the kitchen appliances were avocado green. Maybe I just imagined that and they were harvest gold. I think there was an early microwave but again, I might be recreating history.

It was a fantasy house. Not just because we lived in a 1,200-square-foot bungalow and not because the parents at 2679 Scotia St. had a palatial bedroom with an ensuite (I'd never heard of such a thing before) and a mattress so big the entire family could (and I suspect sometimes did) crawl in together for family times. They had a walk-in closet. It was like the movies. She had a mink jacket you could rub your face gently across and smell faded perfume.

I'm imagining some of it now, of course. When I was a kid I was gobsmacked by the two-sided fireplace, by the sleek and low modern furniture and the number of bathrooms. At my place we had but one bathroom, shared among five of us. But on Scotia they redesigned a bathroom just for the four kids.

They were each assigned a colour for towels, toothbrushes and garbage cans. There were four sinks. To celebrate, the family held a "can opening" party. I've never forgotten it, both for the extravagance and for the joy with which they unveiled the bathroom. There was wine for the parents and pop for the kids and the understanding that life could always be this swell if you were lucky.

They'd pray before meals, the six of them and the five of us, linking hands and bowing heads as we thanked God for our many blessings.

We shared a church and we shared a belief. And then the roast would be passed and the Yorkshire pudding and the laughter between children and the softer laughter between parents who were close friends.

It ended as we grew older and didn't want to be dragged out for dinner with our parents' friends. It ended as adults got busy or lost track or whatever happens when frequent friendships drift away.

And then the architect died of cancer, cruelly early. And then his wife, suffused by grief and responsibility, the mother of those lovely four kids, sold the house to two women. Then she passed away too.

The women (and I have no firsthand knowledge of this) quickly sold the house again. As it turns out, they sold it to the Hells Angels or one of its intermediaries. What was once a lovely and gracious home was then transformed into a biker clubhouse.

The photos of the ravaged house are an obscenity. It's hard to know where the stripper pole was set up. Did they desecrate the family room? Was it in the cheery den with the fireplace? Does the kids' bathroom still exist? Are those their mirrors covered with decals?

The walls that once held a fine collection of Canadian art now hold framed photos of bikers in all their smirking glory. The Inuit art? Let's assume those four fine children divided it after their mother passed.

It's unlikely this batch of bikers used the kitchen for roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. Maybe that's where the bar was set up or the gift shop selling biker souvenirs. Maybe they just called in for pizza and sent minions on beer runs.

You aren't supposed to look over your shoulder when you sell a house. The bikers bought it, more or less fair and square. This wasn't even my house, just a house of my childhood.

But the gates with a Hells Angel logo, the stripper's pole, the high-security make me gag.

This was a nice neighbourhood. They had great neighbours. And now, what should be a sweet memory of friendship and faith has been slimed by a passel of criminals.

If I close my eyes, I still see that Sunday dinner and hear the soft murmur of prayer. The police see drug deals and criminal behaviour.

Their memories are much more true than mine.

lindor.reynolds@freepress.mb.ca

Republished from the Winnipeg Free Press print edition August 10, 2010 A2