Happy Thanksgiving Canada! Enjoy your long weekend, call your friends and family, and celebrate COVID-safely. Here are some tips from the BC public health service.
More little scenes observed on my walks …
Walking in our neighbourhood, I passed a house where the owners had decorated a small tree with smiley-face balloons on a tree and then added a row of little multi-coloured windmills. It was their response to COVID-19, to brighten things up. I smiled as I passed by, just as a guy rode past on a bike and I heard him mutter “too much plastic” as he went by. Party pooper, I thought. And then, damn, he is right. But still.
Three young men are sitting in a park, talking as I pass. One says, with the total conviction that comes of experience, “If you walk into a room like you own it, I don’t care what you’re wearing, if you have swag, then if there are 10 women in the room, 3 of them will want to [have intimate relations with] you”, (or words to that effect). And I think, how do you know that? Are you the guy who walks into the room, or are you the guy who watches the guy who walks into the room? And then, why do guys tell each other what women want? Why don’t they just ask the women?
Walking through Rosedale, I come round a corner and practically bump into someone. I look and realize it’s Geddy Lee, of Rush fame. He’s working his phone and looks trim and fit for a guy who must have 10 years on me, and still a bit like the skinny bass player I saw on stage in Detroit about 40 years ago – unlike myself. And afterwards I think, I should have said something cool.
Walking round and round the garden, I run into the next door neighbour. “I’m in COVID quarantine”, I say. “Oh”, he says, and raises his hands and backs away. “I was in Ontario”, I say, apologetically. And he backs away further. I’m the plague guy now.
One of the great things about walking, whether it’s in my neighbourhood (maybe especially in my neighbourhood), elsewhere in the city, or just out in the country on a trail, is that you continually see little scenes that register mentally but somewhat unconsciously as I wander along.
You can be in a kind of tuned out zone, just walking and not really aware of what’s happening around you, and then some little detail will catch your eye or your ear. These little scenes fascinate me. Shakespeare said that all the world’s a stage, so I think of these as life’s little paragraph plays upon that stage, unconnected on one level and yet part of the world-weave that includes each of us.
I keep meaning to write down these scenes as the impressions register, but it’s a pain to type them into my phone as I walk and when I get home I’ve often forgotten them. Occasionally, something will jog that hidden memory, and over the past few months I’ve been collecting these little postcards until I had enough for a post. Et voila.
I overhear a woman as she gets out of her car and goes into her house, keys jangling as she gestures with one hand while talking into a phone held with the other: “I told you, that’s too much”. And I wonder, what is too much?
A squirrel runs down a tree to the edge of the road, and hesitates, hesitates, hesitates, and then dashes part-way across, sees me coming, stops, turns, turns about again, hesitates, and then sprints the rest of the way to climb a tree, spiralling so that it says hidden from me as I pass. Do bold squirrels live longer, or is it the cautious ones?
I’m walking by the lake, in winter, and there is a thin skim of ice just formed along the shore. As a light breeze disturbs it there is a faint crunch as the ice breaks up, and an almost imperceptible squeak.
I walk past a magnificent magnolia in bloom, just as a gust of wind cascades pink flowers across the sidewalk. Spring snow.
A woman pushing a stroller walks past, oblivious to me and to the child as she talks into her phone, and the child looks over at me and smiles, unnoticed by its mother.
A little guy riding his bike with his mom says “I’m sooooo tired” as he passes me, in just the tone that brings the image of our 3 year old instantly to mind.
On a little side street, 3 gardeners in a row are lined up like life-size gnomes with their colourful gloves and hats, each kneeling and digging amidst their early spring flowers and each oblivious of one another, and of me as I pass.
On side streets all round my neighbourhood there are little monuments, signs, and tokens. COVID-19 has people hunkering down, and at the same time looking up for once, to see the many people who work day in and day out to do the little things – stock grocery store shelves, clean hospitals, prepare and deliver food. I think, when this is over, will new-normal mean old-normal for the cleaners and the shelf-stockers – out of sight and out of mind?
I’m walking on one of the first nearly hot days of late spring and a young woman jogs past – early 20’s perhaps. I see the literal bloom of youth on her cheeks, long legs and easy grace, and think to myself, youth is beautiful. Can I appreciate that she’s gorgeous, purely on an aesthetic basis, now that I’m old enough to be more than her father? (Don’t say grandfather!) Like the girl from Ipanema, she doesn’t see me. And then the moment passes – steady on Nabokov, I think. Don’t get purvy.
Walking in Glendon Woods, my mind goes back to when I attended the school and walked these same paths. There are new leaves and shoots all around me, and the only sound is the West Don River mingling with the birds. It’s warm but not hot, earth-rich scented. There’s no one around. I could be alone in a forest 1000 km from here. Where did 40 years go?