By Stephanie Stevens

Op-Ed Commentary

It was more than just a collection of two-by-fours.

The old Invermere Community Hall, or more specifically, the Lake Windermere Memorial Hall, was the gathering place for many valley folks for 72 years.

It was built to honour those who fought overseas. Built by local hands and hearts. And that bit of its history is important to remember.

But the history that followed is equally important. The human history. And for me, selfishly, a lynchpin in my history.

I have lived in the valley for 38 years. My dad worked for Parks Canada (with a few side adventures in between Parks), so we bounced around from town-to-town for most of my pre-teen life. We came to the valley when I was 12, and up until then, I’d had no real sense of permanence. No feeling of home. Life was a series of packing boxes, new schools, saying goodbye to the friends I had made and looking ahead to meeting new ones. I got pretty good at it all.

So my life’s memories, the ones that really stuck, are here in the valley. And a huge chunk of them are centred around that old building.

I wrote once about how being in the David Thompson Secondary School band program, led by the venerable Greg Constable, was the reason I stayed in high school. And the Big Band Dance, held each year in the old community hall, was a big part of that. I am sure I am not the only one who had a sense of ownership of that place because of those dances. A few of us would climb the stairs up between sets to the area above the stage, exploring, sneaking smokes, peeking out and feeling awfully important. We were the band, you know.

It was the start of my decades-long love affair with that old building. I knew every inch of it.

There are other halls in the valley, yes but this one, THIS ONE, was mine.

I watched plays, listened to bands, went to ski swaps, book sales, craft fairs, birthday parties, and picked up my hamper from the Christmas Bureau from when times were tough, helped lug those boxes out for others when times, for me, were better. I covered countless public meetings as a reporter for The Valley Echo, listened to arguments and debates, attended fundraisers and rallies. I celebrated life and cried tears for those lost in that building, watched my son dance with his new wife on that old parquet floor, a floor I have swept many times after events I organized or helped with myself.

I have listened to stories from seniors who remember when it was built, listened to the reasons, felt the pride, learned more than I can ever express.

I watched judo practice and tournaments, more often as a parent or reporter but also as a participant, landing on the tatami with a resounding thud more than once. I watched kids learning bow techniques, attended dances and dinners put on by countless groups and clubs. I got books from the library upstairs, and later ran the Summit Youth Centre in that same space.

Those YC years in and of themselves are a treasure trove of memories, for me and for those kids.

I don’t think there is one connection I made there that I do not hold close today.

I found love there, even had my heart broken there.

I watched and felt the flow and ebb of life in that building time and time again.

It was not just a collection of two-by-fours. It was not just an old building that impeded some people’s view of the mountains.

It was a soul in and of itself. It has kept safe the secrets we entrusted within its walls. It was a haven, a gathering place.

It was a home.

I stood beside the rubble of that home a few days ago. There was an ache I could physically feel.

And I know I am not the only one who is feeling it.

– Stephanie Stevens is a Columbia Valley journalist and rancher

Article Share