AMELIA PEABODY WOULD UNDERSTAND

At a house in Toronto, while digging a hole in which to plant a rosebush in the front yard, I unearthed a beehive-shaped, brick-lined cavern; its use or purpose remains a mystery: I re-covered the top and planted the rose elsewhere.

Years later, in Georgetown, noticing that two lines in the floor of the dining room of the 1867 Arts and Crafts house cut across the line of the rest of the floorboards, led to the discovery of a trap door and a cistern.A year of so later, digging outside the kitchen door preparatory to laying flagstones, I found another small chamber.

Those were exciting finds, either touching or fostering some archeological interest, and likely the reason I so enjoy, now, the Elizabeth Peters series of mystery books set in Egypt.

The previous experiences have led me, over the years, across the houses since, to dig in the earth with a certain expectation.  Nothing to ‘write home about’ (or ‘blog about’, I suppose, is the updated term).  Until yesterday when to my great delight my Eldest son told me that he was told that, sometime in the past, at our last house in Toronto in the Beaches, the residents, on leaving and not wanting to transport a no longer wanted piano – dug a hole and buried it in the yard!  Shucks!  What a missed opportunity on my part.  Would that not have been an adventure to strike my shovel against such an object, to excavate such a treasure.  I am overwhelmed at the ‘what if’s……’ and feel the loss but am enriched knowing about it.