  Coming from an area that is EXTREMELY young ( urlLink Fort Macleod being the oldest white settlement in Alberta established as a Northwest Mounted Police fort in 1874), this is also an area where, of necessity, buildings were built as quickly and utilitarian as possible to protect the families of new settlers from fast-approaching winter.
Because of this, I have always envied those who come from areas rich in the beautiful architecture of the past. Victorian-style houses draw me the most, especially those sprawling, old country farmhouses. You know what I mean, like the one in “Field of Dreams” ... complete with a wrap-around porch and swing, and a wooden screen door with spring-loaded (squeaky) hinges that opens on a groaning protest and smacks emphatically shut.
Little dormer windows peek cozily out from gabled roofs, the fresh coat of white paint adorning it making it seem as an island standing out in stark contrast against the kerry green of the lawn. Inside, the kitchen is the hub of the house, full of laughter and aromatic smells. In the living room there are several bookcases positively stuffed with delightfully fat books that lure you into choosing one to read in front of the roaring fire.
In the bedrooms there are almost certainly puffy feather beds and comforters where sweet, chubby little kittens snuggle and purr in pure delight. When I picture these houses it’s always in the twilight of high summer. There are long shadows thrown by people sitting out, catching any stray breeze of the dying day, while the porch light illuminates those sitting nearby and desperate moths beat ineffectually at the bare bulb.
There are crickets, holding chorus in the tall grass; and the cat is sitting at the edge of the light, tail twitching, head cocked, watching for an opportunity to pounce. The dog is asleep and faintly snoring under the swing, paws twitching as he chases sleep and rabbits, while faintly in the distance is the soft purr and hum of cars passing out on the highway. 
