The Glenwood Treasure. Kim Moritsugu

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      The Glenwood Treasure

      From Rose Park: An Architectural Guide:

       “Glenwood,” 51 Highpoint Road (1854)

       Named after the extensive wooded grounds which once surrounded it, this house is notable both for its ornately decorated exterior and because from 1915—1964 it was lived in by local builder and wealthy eccentric Jeremiah Brown.

       In 1964, Brown pulled a hoax from beyond the grave when his executors found a handwritten note in his papers stating he had hidden $500,000 in cash somewhere on the Glenwood property, to be found by “a man with a dog who sees light in the valley.”

       After a thorough search yielded no treasure, the estate was sold, and the grounds were divided into smaller building lots. What remained of the wooded area was deeded to the city, which now maintains the ravine system as parkland.

       The interior of the house was largely modernized in the 1980s, but the carefully restored exterior is an enchanting blend of the High Victorian and Italianate styles — it boasts afine crested lookout tower, cut-out curvilinear bargeboard trim, a tri-colour roof tile pattern, original stained glass door transoms, and intricate patterns of yellow and red brick.

       The cash may never have been hidden, but one look at this jewel-box of a house will convince the astute observer that there is still treasure at Glenwood.

      ~ Chapter 1 ~

      I first heard about the Glenwood treasure from my father, who liked to deliver lengthy lectures about family lore, on what seemed like a weekly basis, in the cocktail hour before dinner. I was five years old when he started telling me the story of my Morrison ancestors, young enough not to question why I had to endure these history lessons, old enough to figure out that the Glenwood treasure part of Dad’s recitation was the good part.

      Picture me at five, sitting in the drawing room amid heavy draperies, stiff upholstered furniture, Persian rugs, mahogany side tables. My dark, shiny hair is held back from my face with a rib-bon. The skirt of my smocked dress is fanned out behind me on the wing chair seat. My hands are folded in my lap, and my feet, clad in lacy-topped ankle socks and polished Mary Janes, are still. Under my mother’s watchful and approving eye, I listen to Dad drone on, and when he takes a breath, I say, “Tell us about the Glenwood treasure, Daddy.”

      My brother Noel sits next to me in another wing chair. He is seven to my five, blond to my brunette, and prone to pinching me and leaving presents in my bed of slimy earthworms or stunned bees, but at this stage of the game that will be our relationship, we still collaborate on the occasional parent-manipulation manoeuvre. “Yes, please, Daddy,” Noel says, his eyes big and round — he already knows how to assume a false mask of innocence — “tell us about the treasure.”

      Dad obliges, and treats us to his version of the story, which has less to do with the hidden money than with Dad’s father, my grandfather, Robert Thomas Morrison, the executor of Jeremiah Brown’s estate. According to R.T., Jeremiah Brown went a little strange at his end, had started to become so after his three sons died (two in the war, one in a car crash) and declined further when his wife passed away soon after the death of the youngest son. Call it strangeness or senile dementia, but R.T. was convinced Brown fabricated the treasure story, and never buried a cent.

      Noel and I listened politely to Dad’s lecture, to the official family line, but we didn’t believe the hoax theory for a second. We both knew that there really was treasure hidden at Glenwood, and when my father’s back was turned, we looked for it. We took our toy spades and shovels over to Highpoint Road and dug around on the Glenwood lawn, close to the street or under the trees, when the owners weren’t watching. We didn’t find anything, but we continued to believe in the treasure, each in our own way, for years to come. Which was remarkable, considering how few beliefs Noel and I ever had in common.

      In May of my twenty-ninth year I planned a retreat from California, from the unbroken sunshine and my broken marriage, to home. The thought of living among Rose Park’s deciduous trees, in a temperate climate, was a balm to my wounded expec-tations. When I closed my eyes, I conjured up images of dappled sunshine, of cool breezes causing leaves to dance on their branches, of crabapple trees in bloom, of waves of moral support floated toward me by friends and loved ones. That is, as usual, I was somewhat deluded.

      I called my mother

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