›› Karen Lee Pickett

My partner and I are standing over a waist-high, body-long pile of limbs and branches in our front yard, the product of our ­pruning our fruit trees. We have missed the city’s branch pick-up, and are trying to figure out what to do. Across the street, inside his ever-open garage door, we see our neighbour, Henry. He waves and trots over, seeing the problem immediately. “Let me get my wood chipper.”

Henry is that kind of neighbour. His house and verdant garden are meticulously maintained, and his garage is filled with every tool known to humankind, each ­scrupulously organized into a magic Tardis of hardware. He is endlessly generous in loaning, helping, fixing, hauling in his pick-up and offering excellent advice. We moved to Walnut Street in 2003, and Henry was the first neighbour to make a connection with us. He decorates at Halloween, and enjoys seeing the kids tramping up and down in their costumes; he always puts up lights and a tree at Christmas.

Henry moved into his rented duplex in 1973. He raised his daughter there, and has seen many shifts and changes in the ­neighbourhood. Last year, his landlord put the property on the market, and recently, it sold. The new owner is planning a ­complete renovation, which has already been started on the other side of the duplex. Last week, he gave Henry his notice. After 41 years, Henry must be out of his home by August 1.

“Renovictions” are not uncommon, and apparently Henry has no legal recourse. He grew up near Hillside and Quadra, went to Vic High, was employed at the Jubilee all his working life and is ­spending his ­retirement tending his ­overflowing ­vegetable garden, which is decorated with bright wooden whirligigs he makes in his workshop, and making many other ­beautiful wooden objects: clocks, benches, furniture. He has a deep knowledge of the history of ­Fernwood: its landscape, the ebb and flow of its water, its people. He is the living memory of the street, of the ­neighbourhood. We are ­grateful for his connection and love of Fernwood, because that was the beginning of our ­connection and love for Fernwood.

Henry’s daughter has a lead on a garage apartment in Metchosin which might include room enough to keep some of his tools. When he goes, no matter how many people end up living in what was once his home, there will be a very empty space left behind. He takes with him the heart of Fernwood.