The Kindness of Strangers

I lost one of my favourite mittens in the grocery store yesterday morning. I had the pair of them stuffed in my jacket pocket while I shopped, and when I reached the last store aisle, I looked down and noticed there was only one remaining there. The mittens were relatively new, having been a Christmas gift from Matt, and it upset me that I had somehow separated the pair. Even though I was pressed for time because I was supposed to pick up Noah at school, I backtracked through the entire store, pushing my heavy cart in front of me and scouring the floor and shelves for a hopeful sign of familiar chunky-knit gray and white wool with a jaunty stripe in red. My search turned up nothing useful, so I resignedly headed to the checkout counter and prepared to leave the store.

On my way out, I decided to pass by the customer service desk, hoping I could ask someone there if the store had a lost and found box where my mitten might have (luckily) ended up. But before I even reached the customer service person, I spotted my mitten lying right there in plain sight on the counter. Some thoughtful person had placed it there, hoping its owner might see it and retrieve it as she passed by. (My mitten was lying next to a random block of cheese, and I wondered if someone had lost that, too, and if so, I hoped they'd be reunited with it!) The little, but meaningful, good deed by a stranger completely made my day.

***  

This morning I picked up Noah from his last exam and took him to the nearby Starbucks for a celebratory hot drink. While we were there, I noticed an elderly woman approach a middle-aged woman in the lineup and initiate a conversation, though it was clear that the two women didn't know each other. The elderly woman was asking for directions to a street that doesn't even exist in our city, and the other woman was kindly trying to clarify where exactly she wanted to go. When the elderly woman said she thought she might have a doctor's appointment on a certain street today and wasn't sure how to get there, the other woman offered to help her, first by having the elderly woman follow her in her car, and then, when she realized the elderly woman didn't have a car, by personally driving her there. The middle-aged woman found out the name of the doctor from the elderly woman and called that medical office, just to confirm that she was going to the right place. From what I could gather from the one-sided phone conversation, the elderly woman did not actually have an appointment there, and in fact, was not even a patient at that office. It was heartbreaking to realize the extent to which this elderly woman was confused.

After a little more chit chat, the elderly woman said goodbye, headed out of the coffee shop and began walking down the street. The middle-aged woman, still visibly concerned, decided to notify the police in an effort to ensure the elderly woman's safety. She wondered aloud afterwards whether she had done the right thing, but she felt that she had to help somehow. Noah and I were both touched to see such care shown to a complete stranger.

***

What is the point of telling small stories of lost mittens and Starbucks encounters? Because I think in our current climate of political upheaval, hurt, hatred, violence, division, and outrage, it's important to know that there are still good things happening around us. Fear and anger about the state of our world make us want to look away, to shut ourselves off from the constant stream of overwhelming news and focus only on the relative safety of ourselves and those close to us. But there is hope to be found in the tiny acts of kindness towards strangers that are still everywhere, if we're willing to keep our eyes and hearts open to experience them.

I think acknowledging and trying to understand the challenges, misfortunes, and suffering of others is necessary; it is empathy that often compels us to be our most loving and giving selves. But we also need to be heartened by continuing to notice the good, whether it be in small, local gestures or in grand ones happening on a more global scale. We need to notice, and then join our unique voices or hands or brains to the many others that are working, in their own positive ways, to crowd out cruelty, ignorance, indifference, and hatred. We need to keep believing that we each have it in us to make our shared spaces and experiences better for one another.

Love Letters

I did a lot of rummaging and sorting through storage boxes when we were packing to move houses back in the fall. Many long forgotten keepsakes turned up in that process -- old photographs and small handmade articles of clothing, travel trinkets and stacks of eager school projects --  stirring poignant memories from the quiet inner corners where I'd tucked them away years earlier.

One found item was a letter I had handwritten and mailed to my Grandma Atkinson back when I was a university student at Queen's. (The letter came into my hands again years later when my aunt and I tenderly sorted and packed up my grandma's apartment for her move into a nursing home.) There was nothing out of the ordinary in this letter; it was one of many notes I had written to her to say hello and to share tidbits of my daily life as a student living far from home, at a time when the cost of long distance phone calls was prohibitive. But that letter, written in my tiny, even cursive, was a very physical reminder of a long ago self that has faded and fallen further beyond my current reach as the years have passed. Reading it again had a powerful emotional effect on me.

I don't remember exactly when I stopped regularly writing letters to people by hand. I'm assuming my letter writing activity, like many other people's, simply tapered off as email took over, and it became easier to connect with others by sending off a few quickly typed lines of text any time I wanted to. But I'm reminded every time I receive a piece of handwritten mail from a loved one of just how touching this kind of correspondence can be. My Grandma Deresti's cursive takes me back into her warm, familiar kitchen when she sends me a handwritten recipe in an envelope, and a note from my parents, faintly scented by my mom's handcream as she looped her pen along the page, allows me to be happily closer to them for a moment, even though they're an eight hour drive away. A handwritten message somehow reaches the brain and the heart in a different way, I think, than a text or an emoji sent from a keyboard can.

I was glad yesterday to read about InCoWriMo, a "vintage social media" movement that encourages people to handwrite and mail or deliver one letter, card, note, or postcard to someone each day for the month of February. I still send handwritten cards to family and friends for special occasions, but I love the idea of sending a non-typewritten letter or note to someone "just because". February can be a tough and lonely month for people, as the gray, cold days of winter drag on. It seems a perfect time to dust off the cute stationery that's been hiding on a shelf somewhere and use it to brighten someone's day (and maybe redevelop a lovely habit for the longer term). If the idea of writing a letter a day seems too much, perhaps InCoWriMo can inspire us to send off a cheerful, leisurely written note to someone even a couple of times next month. This would be a great little project to involve the kids in, too -- who doesn't love receiving a few creatively spelled words scrawled in crayon by a little one in their mailbox?

Will sometimes tells me I'm a dinosaur, because I'm often reluctant to embrace the latest tech trends and I still cling hopefully to my paper and pens. Call me a dinosaur if you like, but the act of slowing down for a few minutes and sending thoughtful messages to loved ones the old-fashioned way appeals to the sentimentalist in me. Some outdated practices just seem too nice to become extinct.

Winter Wondering

Well hello, long-neglected blog space! Nice to see you again. I'm not even sure what I've come here to write about today (everything and nothing seems like a good topic when I've left so many gaps to fill in), but I was starting to feel like if I didn't come back soon, I just might never again, and so here I am. Happy January!

We had a lovely holiday season, Matt and the boys and I, one that was everything we always hope for when we have some time off together to celebrate and recharge: a couple of weeks filled with family, favourite foods, laughter, fun and relaxation, cozy moments spent at home, and lively moments spent outdoors enjoying Mother Nature's most beautiful seasonal displays. We hosted dinners and went to relatives' houses, decorated a gingerbread house, played board games and ping pong, read new books and magazines, did a giant puzzle, went walking in the nearby conservation area after a pretty snowfall, and went sledding down a deserted hill on the coldest night of the winter so far. (This was the boys' idea, and though Matt and I didn't really appreciate it at first suggestion, hearing the boys' laughter ring out as they flew down the hill under a starry winter's night sky later made the frozen toes and fingers feel worth it.)

The down time was very welcome; it was a good period of restfulness and togetherness before we headed into what now feels like the busiest season we've ever experienced.

Our family calendar is bursting right now, to the point of almost being ridiculous. Both Noah and Will are currently involved in an assortment of worthwhile, but demanding, activities. Noah coaches swimming at his old swim club four days a week and has meets to go to some weekends; he also practices a couple of days a week in the pool with his high school swim team. (He had a very successful season before Christmas and is moving on to the CWOSSA championships).

Noah made the local newspaper! :)

He has also kicked it into high gear with Team Dave, the high school robotics team, which is in its hectic six-week build season right now. What this basically means is that Noah is at the school doing something related to robots any moment of the day/evening/weekend that he is not doing something else.

Will is gearing up for competitive dance season, with extra practices and events on top of his regular three days a week of training, and he made his school basketball team this season (something he was really proud of considering his relative height disadvantage!), so he has games now after school. His Lego robotics team made provincials at the qualifying tournament back in December, so he is still hard at work with his teammates several days a week, improving their robot, missions, and project in preparation for the next round, plus, he has also joined the high school robotics team that Noah is on (which means that he is also at the school doing something related to robots any moment of the day/evening/weekend that he is not doing something else.)

It is really wonderful to see them both so happily engaged and learning in so many different areas, but it's also hard not to feel like my head is going to explode trying to keep all of their schedules straight and make sure they are fed well before we need to dash off to the next thing. I need to keep reminding myself to take it one day at a time, and to enjoy this richly full period of our lives, because like so many other phases of the boys' youth, it too will one day suddenly be behind us and I'll look back on it with a sense of wistfulness that it's over.

In the midst of all of the busyness of life with two very involved teen boys, I also need to remember to keep myself and my own interests front of mind. I've been thinking recently about where I want to direct my creative energies in the coming months. The process of moving houses, and then getting ready for Christmas, were the focus of almost all of my free time and attention throughout the fall and early winter, but now that I've spent a week wrapping my head around the new schedules and gathering new recipes that will work for healthy, hurried meals (see my personal Facebook page for a great collection of slow cooker recipe suggestions from friends!), I feel that if I put off starting a meaningful project of my own any longer, I'm just making excuses. I've missed writing; I can feel myself getting frustrated and antsy when I've been away from it too long, and each additional day away makes it easier and easier to keep procrastinating. As a means of getting back into a regular writing habit, I'm going to start using Lynda Barry's suggestions for keeping a daily journal. (Thanks to local writer Carrie Snyder for introducing me to Barry's work.)

I hope the new year has been kind to all of you so far, and that you, too, are finding everyday life to be an adventure worth experiencing fully (even if it sometimes feels overwhelming). xo

Right at Home

There are echoes everywhere when one moves houses. The obvious physical ones bounce off of empty walls, growing louder each day as the soft things that make a house a home get tucked away carefully in boxes and bins, erasing at least to the eye most traces of the family who has lived and loved there. They're jarring, these strange new sounds in a long familiar place, but it's the echoes created deep within the hearts of the home's inhabitants that are the most unsettling. Every tissue-wrapped treasure evokes a poignant memory; together they clamour of all the years lived and gone now, and there's an aching realization in the final days of packing that the typical, everyday occurences in that house are suddenly significant last ones. Even when a move is decided upon with joyful excitement, there is room among the echoes for doubt and nervousness, for questions about whether choosing a new home was a good decision, or whether the unknown can offer happiness, too.

Matt and the boys and I have been in our new house for just over six weeks now, and any doubt we felt in those packing weeks has quickly dissipated as we've settled in and made this place our home. The spaces all seem just right for the four of us; we're completely at ease as we move together through the bustling days of enthusiastic family life here. All of us are enjoying experiencing the things we knew we'd love about this place when we bought it, and we're also discovering unexpected and cheerful surprises as we get to know the house and yard and neighbourhood better. Changing schools has been a happy experience for Will; he's made new friends quickly and has joined all kinds of extra-curricular activities already. Noah's found joy in discovering new running routes in this quieter neighbourhood close to a conservation area, and in having space in the basement here to play the drums he bought this fall. It's been exciting for Matt and I to be able to create the home we've long envisioned but couldn't quite achieve due to limitations in our old house. We feel at peace here, among the thoughtfully chosen touches indoors and the beautiful trees outdoors that are a haven for welcome little critters.

It becomes easy, I think, as we get older and more settled, to resist big changes that will require us to upset the comfortable rhythms of our daily lives, even when those changes are wished for deep down. A move seemed to us like an enormous undertaking filled with unknowns (and I won't lie, it's been a huge amount of work!) I remember now, though, that sometimes it's well worth the effort and upheaval to experience the pleasure of seeing life from a brand new perspective. At this house the sun rises gracefully every morning, just as it has at all of the other houses in which we've lived. But having it rise on a different side of the building, where the glowing pink light streams in our kitchen window while we sip warm drinks and munch on toast, has made us stop and take notice of its beauty as if we're seeing it again for the very first time.

Found in Aunt Maisie's Apartment

This post is a piece of creative non-fiction I wrote for a CBC contest back in the winter. It didn't capture the attention of the judges, but I'm giving it a home here now because it's a meaningful story for my family, especially my mom and dad. Thinking of them and all the ways they give of themselves to bring brightness to others' lives.

Congratulations to the thirty-two excellent writers whose pieces were longlisted for the CBC's 2016 Creative Non-Fiction Prize.

The phone rang shrilly three... four... five times, its sudden clamour piercing the stuffy air in the otherwise quiet apartment. Anxiety had often compelled her not to answer when random callers beckoned in recent years, but this time it was not her mind preventing her from moving toward the phone. She was a lonely prisoner in her own home, an old woman sprawled despondently on the floor, having fallen two days (or was it three now?) earlier. Her shaky limbs were too weak to follow the commands her panicked mind repeatedly barked out at them. As darkness slowly swallowed up the room once more, she struggled to recall when exactly her body had turned such a traitor.

***

“My Aunt Maisie’s in the hospital.” Mom’s voice was tired and sorrowful, the recent passing of her own mother weighing heavily on her heart. She hadn’t seen Aunt Maisie in years, she told me, and Maisie had said everything was fine on the occasions they had spoken on the phone. It was a sixth sense, or love, or maybe a powerful message from a mom who was gone but somehow still close by that told her to try the hospital when Mom’s repeated calls to her mother’s closest sister went unanswered.

“Her superintendent finally let himself into the apartment out of concern,” she explained. “Maisie will be moving into a nursing home once she’s recovered from her fall; she can’t live alone any longer. She’s giving me power of attorney and the keys to her apartment so I can take care of everything.” I waited during an empathic pause on the other end of the line. “She has no one else.”

Mom didn’t realize then the enormity of the responsibility she had just selflessly shouldered.

It seemed improbable that the weary old apartment was capable of holding so much. Chaos spilled out from every corner and cupboard, the accumulated treasures and debris of an abundant life nearly eight decades long. It might have been a gold mine of sorts for someone without any personal connection to the rooms or the woman who had lived in them for forty-four years, someone who could seek out the physically valuable items and leave the rest behind. For my parents, whose task it was to completely empty the place while respecting Maisie’s wishes and feelings, it seemed an indomitable mountain.

There were cabinets full of tarnished silver and smudgy crystal. Newspapers and years’ worth of mail sat stacked and unopened on tables and beds. Dead plants drooped in pots and a vase held the remains of spring flowers that had withered months before. Bags of garbage were piled by the door, and the fridge held shelves full of rotting food. Everywhere my parents looked there were heaps of both precious and trivial possessions: new curtains and bedding lying across the couch, an endless supply of Swiffer dusters that nodded ironically at the inches of dust covering everything, a television sitting on an empty cardboard box, smiling collectible figurines and faded photographs. Mom walked the narrow pathway that led to the one empty bed in the apartment and felt a suffocating wave of hopelessness.

Aunt Maisie had always been a meticulous woman, Mom told me. I, too, remembered her spotless apartment from the few times I had visited it as a child, and the flawless way she had always presented herself with elegant hairstyles, clothing, jewellery, and make-up. It filled my mother with despair to imagine how Maisie’s life had fallen into such a sad state of disarray as her aging mind faltered. Scattered over many of the apartment’s surfaces were notes written in Maisie’s shorthand, a skill honed during her career as a legal secretary. My parents studied the cryptic scribbles intently, hoping to understand some small part of them, but the messages offered no clues about how they should proceed. There are no instructions for how to disperse the earnest collections of a family member’s life once she’s grown too old to take care of it herself.

Over the three months that it took my parents to empty the apartment, my mom found her own powerful memories resurfacing from the jumble. Old photographs allowed her to feel once again the warmth of familiar eyes and long-gone smiles; her mom’s pretty cursive flowed from cards and letters mailed to Maisie in the years following their reconciliation after a drawn-out, hurtful family dispute. She uncovered Maisie’s famous trifle recipe and the bowl that had held the festive dessert at many happy family Christmas celebrations long ago. Running her fingers along the surfaces of these intimate objects brought tangible proof that what she had lived and remembered was real.

I was at the apartment the day that Mom found a pretty hat box way up high in a closet. We carefully removed the lid and stood for a moment in reverent silence, staring at the small, ruffled dress and the love-worn soft monkey laid carefully inside. These had belonged to Maisie’s only daughter, who was stolen from her at the tender age of seven. A jealous river had pulled the little girl through a crack in its frozen surface and smothered her in its icy embrace.

Mom sighed with sadness and gently placed the lid back on the box. “I can’t make a decision about this. It’s not mine to say goodbye to.” The box would be one of the items brought to Maisie’s new home at the retirement residence, where she would build the last stages of her life from the fragmented objects and memories that remained. I wondered if for Maisie it was distressful, or a relief, to have family members free her of the weight of her life’s possessions, and a failing memory sporadically release her from old ghosts that might haunt her.

In the final days of sorting, clearing, and moving things from the apartment, a key to an unexpected off-site storage locker revealed well-remembered treasures from Mom’s grandmother’s house: a crystal bowl, a silver teapot and a collection of dainty china cups, a small cat figurine that my mom had wanted as a keepsake and that a then-bitter Maisie had denied her at my great-grandma’s last garage sale. The contents of the apartment and locker revived old heartaches and buried anger for my mom, but she let them go. She passed on the pieces and stories she felt were worth keeping to younger family members who would appreciate them, and with relief, she allowed everything else to leave freely. “You forgive,” my mom would explain to me several months later. “You don’t forget, but you forgive.”

Aunt Maisie is never far from Mom’s mind now. She visits her regularly, shops for what Maisie needs, takes her to medical appointments, coaxes her to get dressed and leave her room when anxiety has prevented her from doing either. It’s not easy, Mom tells me; she’s had to find much patience and understanding within herself. On good days, she knows Aunt Maisie appreciates her. Sometimes she just feels she’s being taken for granted.

“I don’t want to end up like that, confused and in pain.” Mom has shared these fears with me many times before. “I don’t want any of you to have to take care of me.”

But this, too, is a part of life for many of us. We spend years building and creating, then stand by helplessly in old age as some of it crumbles or fades away. We make mistakes as we stumble through youth, then make amends as time and perspective help us gain understanding. Eventually, many of us will forget, leaving others who come after us to pick up the loose threads and continue weaving a complex family history.

There will likely come a time when it is my turn to bring comfort and support to aging family members. I’m certain of what I will remember then: the generosity and tenderness of my parents caring for an elderly aunt when she needed them, a powerful image of unconditional love.

From Summer to September

The crickets chirp in earnest now from their secret spots in the backyard gardens. It's a steady, late summer song that carries us, somewhat reluctantly, from the long, leisurely days of the past couple of months to the bustle and hum of a fresh school year.

It's been a gorgeous summer. July and August gave us sunny skies and beautiful places for both quiet relaxation and lively fun with family and friends. We rented our friends' cottage on St. Joe's Island for two weeks again early in the summer, where we filled up our lungs with fresh northern air and our hearts with some of our very favourite people, landscapes, and family traditions. We spent a fun long weekend at Matt's parents' place on Lake Nosbonsing, where all of his siblings and their families gathered at once, including a brother who lives in Australia and who surprised us all with his visit. Later in August, Matt and the boys and I took a little overnight trip to Frankenmuth, MI, always an enjoyable getaway for shopping and sightseeing and famous chicken dinners. We also spent many mornings and afternoons this summer enjoying our own backyard together -- swimming in the pool, jumping on the trampoline, gardening, grilling, reading books and playing cards in the shade of the big, friendly trees. My brother and nephew and niece joined us for a few days in late summer and the yard echoed with the laughter of four kids who always have a wonderful time when they're together, despite the physical distance that separates them for most of the year.

The boys got up to some interesting things while they had an abundance of down time these past few months. They both volunteered as camp counsellors for a week, mentoring younger students in robotics and other STEM activities. Will mastered solving several new types of puzzle cubes and was invited to join an FLL team for the new season, which he's thrilled about. Noah spent much of the last couple of weeks at the Communitech hub, working diligently with a friend on a special design and programming project that was an exciting and challenging learning opportunity for them.

This summer, Noah turned 15 (!?!), and we finally gave in to Iris the cat's whining to go outside and bought her a harness and leash, which is both ridiculous and fun. We watched the Olympics, and the Tragically Hip's poignant last tour concert, and we sat under dark skies in our pjs late at night and watched for shooting stars. Oh, and in between all of this, we bought a new house, and sold our current house, in a wild flurry of activity driven by a hot real estate market where everything worked out in our favour. (We move in early October, and Will starts at his new neighbourhood school tomorrow morning.)

As the sun sets this evening on the last long weekend of a truly wonderful summer holiday, we'll go to bed here feeling well-rested, well-fed, reconnected, grateful, and happy. Though I'm wistful over the passing of another summer of my boys' youth, I'm also eager for the new adventures that surely await us as the seasons change once again.

"You can't be looking at these hoes": An 8th Grade Relationship Contract

There was an article in our local newspaper this morning about a relationship contract drafted by an 8th grade girl and signed by an 8th grade boy, the written copy of which had been found on the floor of a classroom and then tweeted by Twitter user Max Linsky. Among the nine "terms and conditions" included in the contract were these clearly worded particulars:

"You can't talk hoes."
"You can't hug these hoes."
"You can't be looking at these hoes."
"You can't break my heart because if you break my heart I will break your face."

The contract went viral on the internet earlier in June. This morning's article suggested that the document was written by a "super smart" and "confident" girl "who knows exactly what she wants", and that while the conditions are "comical and arguably extreme", they actually provide lessons for adult couples about important relationship issues such as respect, conflict, and communication.

I might be missing something (does the word "hoes" mean something different now than it did when I was a teenager?), but I don't find anything comical or especially enlightening about any of the terms set out by this young woman for her prospective partner. Her confidence seems to come from putting other young women down, and from positioning herself as having complete control in the relationship with the young man.

I don't have teenaged daughters to talk to about relationships, but if I did, I would tell them the exact same things I've been telling my teenaged sons: it is never okay to call someone a ho, or to threaten violence, even jokingly, when someone has a different opinion or feeling than they do. As a parent, I'm disappointed that a contract such as this one would go viral because people find it comical. I'm assuming that the "hoes" the 8th grader is referring to are her fellow female schoolmates -- how does the use of such a derogatory term by a young woman make people see her as strong and smart? What reaction would we have if a young man were to use the same term? Is the threat of breaking someone's face as retribution for heartbreak okay when it's uttered by a girl?

Recent distressing news events like the Stanford assault case and the Orlando shootings have made parents keenly aware that there are important, ongoing conversations we need to have with all of our children about respect for other human beings. We should want both our boys and our girls to understand that name-calling and threats of physical injury are not acceptable. Sharing a contract like this one, or any other offensive words or images, over and over again on social media because it's "funny" sends everyone the wrong message.

If my sons decide to date one day, would I like them to be in relationships with strong, smart, confident young women who know exactly what they want? Absolutely. I just hope that their girlfriends' confidence comes not from insulting other young women or thinking they have a right to break a boy's face, but from having a healthy, positive sense of self and knowing how to communicate their feelings and needs intelligently and respectfully. I want my boys to be treated with the same consideration with which I expect them to treat others.

If we want to widely circulate a lesson about relationships in the media, let's make it this one: there should be no double standard when it comes to courtesy in human interactions. Let's hold all of our young people, boys and girls, to the same high standards of kindness.