Don't Try This at Home, Kids

I like to playfully characterize this stage of my life as my dotage.  Actually there's not much funny in it, but one does what one can, laughs at what one can.  I have found as I'm aging that I've developed a fear of falling.   I step carefully (usually) and slither down the stairs gingerly.  This is why the companion fantasy to my fear is a nice little open-concept bungalow with a main floor laundry which we've been pursuing for about 5 years now, but that's a story for another day.

 So it was a surprise and shock when I took a hard tumble in the driveway the other day.  We were loading the grandkiddiddles into the car and about to load in the stroller.  I don't know what I did - something like got my foot caught in the stroller, don't remember that part but do remember that sickening feeling when you're going down hard and can't stop it from happening.  In a nano-second you're processing the event and you're seized with regret, aghast at the potential outcome. (had that same groaning regret one time when I took an unscripted tumble on stage and was just hoping it looked convincing, while my family was out in the audience debating, "did she mean to do that?")  Must be something like that proverbial life-passing-before-the-eyes, or that phenomenon I read about Gretzky years ago, that he thinks in slo-mo.

 Anyhoo, I went down smack on my face.  My very expensive prescription sunglasses popped off my face and into pieces, none of which shattered and maimed me irreparably.  But I groaned at the sight of their disfigurement around about the time I was pulling myself up from a pool of blood (blood is so theatrical) dripping onto my coat and the driveway, trying to collect myself into the house, while my husband was yelling "Hey, hey!"  "Bring the kids back into the house",  I countered,  "and you get going". (we had been on our way to a doctor's appt for him)
 " No",  says he, "we're going to get you some stitches",  whereupon an argument broke out as to whether I required stitches, and I suggested to him that we did not want to be sitting in triage for 2 or more hours with 2 small tired and hungry children.  He then proceeded to phone the doctor to ask could he exchange his appt with them for one with me, to get stitches, and they pointed out to him that such a procedure is done at emergency and not at the doctor's office.  So we're off down to the hospital, me with a cold wet washcloth on my eye/forehead and he grunting why the hell can't a doctor fix you in his office, stupidest thing he's ever heard.   And the 3 yr old in the back seat being very philosophical adds,  "We were about to go downtown, then BOOM!"


 A pleasant surprise awaits us at the renovated emergency entrance, which I haven't visited for ages since my children decided to grow up and stop hurting themselves, or at least to stop requiring my assistance when they did so.  There were few people there; they took me quickly, didn't stitch me ( told you so) but taped me up and gave me the " read this carefully head injury admonition sheet".  One of the caveats is that someone must monitor me and wake me every two hours.  So here's my aging spouse who is struggling to get over a nasty cold, who is meant to drag himself out and wake me regularly, me who is just learning how to get through a night without waking herself constantly.  I threatened him that if he woke me he'd be sporting a shiner too.  But later the younger daughter phoned and said remember what happened to Natasha Richardson, yada yada, so he actually did check me through the night.  I felt so special. (!)

 Meanwhile we amused ourselves by taking pix of the progression of puffing and discolouring on my face, like the old Disney time-lapse photogaphy from our young days. (We clearly have too much time on our hands)   And we made up many giggles about the story to accompany the messed up face.  We might have just left that alone because any friends/relatives we encountered had their own fun with it.

Most of the humour was premised on an assumption that hubby had popped me, so he soon grew tired of it and a little too defensive, a sure sign of guilt.  One of my favourite lines was our Palestinian friend who took Collin by the shoulder and said,  "I'm only going to talk about this once, then I'll speak to the Imam".  And a woman with a shiner can evoke interesting responses from strangers, mostly discomfort it seems.  Went to the eye doctor next day to ask if they could rescue my sunglasses which had suffered worse than I. (They had played an ironic role in the event.  My eye was wearing a ring clearly identifiable as the shape of a large lens so the glasses had been the culprit, but I think they had also taken a lot of the impact)  SO at the optometrist's office many employees and patients were giving furtive glances, no one asking or joking, when  I wanted an opportunity to explain what was far more innocent than what they surmised.

 What do we learn from this boys and girls? That any nasty little incident can provide its own fun.  Ain't life grand. Oh, and, my sunglasses are now good as new.

Help Me, Mr. Rogers

We have lived in this house, in this neighbourhood, in this city,  nearly 31 years. We were so young, our children so young, when we arrived.  Our city was younger too, and our neighbourhood was new.  The road stopped at our house.  Three days after we moved in, the city works dept came to extend it.  As neighbours joined us they brought young families too.   Our neighbourhood, our city in fact, has burgeoned over 30 years. We were once the south end; now we're practically midtown.

Our children have grown up and moved away.  Unfortunately, our original neighbours have all moved away as well.  They saw the writing, the writing we ignored.

 We are walking distance to a university. We now live in the heart of  the new "academia".  Our neighbourhood is overrun with student housing.  Opportunists have bought up all the properties and are making a profit at our expense.  Our property value has been diminished.  Our realtor has informed us that our house would go for a much better price on a different street.  Now that we're at that downsizing twilight, we would hope only to downsize physical space, not equity. 

A couple of Septembers ago, we found a flyer in our mailbox.  A flyer that entreated us to welcome our new young neighbours, as the flood of  students poured into town, to make kids who might be away from home for the first time feel welcome, less intimidated by the experience of being on their own; we were invited to explain the garbage pickup system to them etc.  The flyer came from an office on campus that was charged with student relations.  Nowhere in the flyer was there an acknowledgement of the concerns of the property owner whose whole life has been invested in a home, a home that is now  neighbouring houses that are often illkempt, with flags hanging in windows, beer cups strewn over yards.  Property owners who are often wakened at 3 or 4 a.m. by noisy parties. Who observe that the highest academic calling requires more kegs than textbooks, that the modern scholarly lexicon is peppered with  4-letter words.   Property owners who don't like playing the role of  nasty neighbours who summon the police, and who often wait a long time before there is police action, if there is any at all, as the beleaguered gendarmes prioritize the worst scenarios.

 We have often had friendly overtures from new young neighbours who will come to our door with a phone number because they are planning a party and we are invited to phone if there is a problem.  Then when the problem inevitably arises the phone is not answered because they cannot hear it over the music.  One has to knock at the door and engage in an argument with a drunken host or guest. One such once told us loudly that we were lucky to live in a  university  town because it was supporting the economy.   Sometimes hundreds of "guests" find their way to an advertised "kegger".  I have never seen so many taxies in my life as I have seen on my street on homecoming weekend or after exams.  Students seem to have been advised to make a friendly overture to neighbours, to visit and leave their phone number, and that's the end of it - they seem to think they have no further responsibility after that gesture.   Many seem very naive about what will happen once word gets out that a kegger is planned. 

We do not dislike young people or begrudge them a good time in life.  We have  4 offspring who are now in  adulthood.  They are all university graduates who have experienced that away-from-home lifestyle. ( In  fact, my eldest grandchild is now in university.)  We are both retired teachers who have seen many fine young people go through our doors. I was a secondary school teacher who had many pleasant times with penultimate university students.   It is not pleasant to be thought of as the crabby neighbours who call the police.  We like our house and its convenient location to many amenities.  But it has become very inconvenient to be so well situated to the university.

One sunny spring day, my daughter and I pulled into our driveway.  Next door, there was a festive gathering.  The front lawn had been furnished with kitchen chairs and accessorized by beer cases and guitars.  My daughter quietly observed, and muttered, "Sell in the winter". 

Recently a citizen's letter showed up in the editorials of a local paper - a letter I could've written word for word about the woes of being consumed by a student neighbourhood coup.  Apparently the municipality is somewhat hogtied by provincial initiatives that offer loopholes to landlords. 

Mr Rogers, come and carry me off on your trolley.  It's not a beautiful day in my neighbourhood.

That Ol' Gang of Mine

My husband (Collin) and I are retired educators.  Collin finished his teaching career as an elementary school principal, and I as a secondary English teacher.  Teaching is a profession whose members tend to move about frequently to different positions, different venues.  Over a career, most teachers will engage with many colleagues, forge many friendships, many fleeting, a few enduring.

Such has been my experience.  I'm privileged to belong to a small group of steadfast women who, for several years, have retreated twice annually to a women's cottage weekend.  The core group consists of two classroom teachers, two teacher/librarians and two school secretaries (4 currently retired). We worked in the same school 20 years ago, but maintain a bond.

Collin and I met in the 70's  while on the same staff, so we started out with a shared pool of good friends, good times.  When we married, they treated us to a riotous shower. Those pre-Mike Harris years seemed somehow to generate more fun.

 Now, years later and in another city, we had lost touch with most  of that gang, except for two couples whom we have seen occasionally.  But the electronic age has dissolved distance and time.   I found one old friend on FB and began a progressive chat.  Started talking with another friend about having a reunion.  When our 35th wedding anniversary came round last fall,  I  searched for more.  Finally, this February we held a reunion that was attended by 14.  Another 5 who were located were unable to attend, but I forwarded a group pic of the occasion and a review.

Thirty years later, sporting wrinkles, white hair and frailties,  we quickly fell into familiar patterns.  The same jokes, the same teasing and kibbitzing.  "You haven't changed a bit," said Joe, the shop teacher whose room had been next to mine.  Some architect in his infinite wisdom had placed all the "noise-makers" in the same corner of the school, and all day long Joe's machines had roared into my music  room through the vents.

 Despite the best intentions to avoid the same old kvetching about the principal we loved to hate, the subject inevitably insinuated itself.  We poured through musty yearbooks and revisited anecdotes.  Two people said they'd never forget the time I had an encounter with a kid wielding a gun, but I have no recollection of such an event!!  Either they have a synchronized false memory, or I've deteriorated even more than I'd thought.
 
The friend I found on FB who was the impetus was among those who couldn't make it.  But he did us all a good service by igniting  the original spark.