The street is littered with the remains of Victorian homes. Half a block further down, one home achieved not only heritage designation but the more impressive safeguard against progress: a historical plaque.

Many others remain, divided and subdivided into small apartments, managed by the city. (I wonder sometimes what the former owners, the wealthy founders of Muddy York, would think of the neighbourhood now…)

This house - larger than many, disguised by vines and hidden by encroaching trees - stands on a corner lot. For more than a year, I watched the repairs progress, slowly, slowly; expecting a new roof, but not copper.

Last time I passed by, it was almost done. The roof, window frames, and even the eavestrough and flashing gleamed like new.

I wonder why it warrants such care in a city mad with facadism and condo developments. I’ve never found it’s plaque…