About

“There’s a great photo of the birds, you just missed it.” Lloyd leans over the wall, pointing to the sky above The Oval. This is a sleepy Labour Day afternoon, and just up the street, the street lights trickle on as people are now coming out to Nelson Mandela Park for football, exercise or just about whatever else Trinis do on a lazy holiday afternoon. I respond to him, telling him it’s the house I want. There’s a history in these houses that fascinates me, and I’d love to document them. Lloyd tells me about this house, the one behind him. He’s the caretaker, a job he’s had all his life.

“I went out for a job, and in about two days, I found this one he says. I was sixteen years old. I’m sixty-one now.” He points to the ‘For Sale’ sign on the house. “If you want to hear the story of the house, call the number. The owner would like nothing better than to tell you the story.” I take a picture of it, but today, the story I’m most interested in is Lloyd’s.

“This is one of the oldest houses in the country you know. The man who hired me, he died at ninety-four. He got the house from his grandmother, so you could imagine” Over two hundred years for sure, I say. He nods, and smiles. The conversation goes on for a while, and I ask for these pictures. He shows me the windows. He points to the peaks of the roof. I tell him my name, and he reminds me to call the current owner. I turn around to walk back up the street.

I glance back, but Lloyd has vanished. Back to life, back to the old house. Back to the tally of thousands of days, of which we’ve just added one more.