Life's Like That
Not too much can actually ruin my day, but things do happen that make me wonder why I'm still enthusiastic and optimistic, to be sure. I do get at least one dirty look, and there will be more, as I make my rounds of my neighbourhood street, collecting for the Canadian Cancer Society canvass (Heart and Stroke, Canadian Diabetes Association, CNIB, Arthritis Society, Salvation Army, March of Dimes; take your pick). Nothing makes me more annoyed than people who groan bitterly, living in my middle-class neighbourhood, that they're over-taxed and overextended. Those who declare donor fatigue anger me even more. Living our lifestyles, wasting money on items that seem to complement our needs, but are in fact negligible to them, and refusing to render a few dollars to a charitable cause is the ultimate in nihilism. We must have values and among them must be the recognition that those who live without want have an obligation to those who do live in want. The fact that the Red Cross and other aid agencies are lamenting what they recognize as donor fatigue in response to the dreadful earthquakes in Pakistan and India, is a dreadful situation. We gave for the Tsunami which hit Indonesia and Sri Lanka on 27 December 2004, we gave in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, and we must continue to observe our obligations, at home and worldwide. To do otherwise is to render us far less than we should be.
One more worry: what it was that caused my husband to experience stomach cramps during the night before. I don't think it was the Cornish hen, it smelled fresh and fine, but the asparagus had a distinctly odd smell about it. One more morning when I awaken, and wonder if our daughter will have an all-right day at work, or whether she'll have a run-in with someone, resulting in the spoilation of her day, which, when she picks our grandchild up after school, we'll hear all about, and grieve for her peace of mind. And ours. One more day where we do our best to entertain our granddaughter, wishing that there was a little girl her age on our street with whom she could play, confide in, and pass the time. Mind, we could always play Scrabble or Monopoly (she no longer allows me to read to her, insisting that she read to me, which she does rather well, but soon tires of doing), although I'd much rather be out in the garden. None of these things ruin my day, but they do take the dew off complete contentment.
I'm a senior citizen, living in the not-too-far reaches of Ottawa proper, in pretty good health but experiencing problems sleeping peacefully through an entire night. I'm not too thrilled that my recently-initiated baby aspirin therapy has resulted in constant heartburn. It's what Ivan Illich so famously described as iatrogenic illness so many years ago. When I pass you on the street you might wonder why I'm carrying that tiny dog, instead of walking it, but I intend to put it down once we reach the wooded ravine where we enjoy our daily walks. I am a "respectable" senior citizen, despite my casual walking clothes, my yappy dog and my flying hair. I know that most of the people I pass, even those I wave casually to have some opinions about me, some perhaps unflattering, but guess what? I don't really mind.
Sure, sometimes I feel that my biggest problem is that I'm not independent enough, that I enjoy my husband's company too much, his conversation, his comforting presence, and I'm simply loathe to give it up however temporarily for other pursuits like going out for coffee, lunch, bowling, you name it. I do have fears about the health and happiness of our children, and I think how wonderful it would be to find a cure for diabetes so our oldest child would no longer require multiple daily injections. I worry about his little brother living so far away in British Columbia, addicted to the mountains, summer and winter. If he had a constant companion to share his exploits and love of nature with, we'd worry less. Yes, we would.
Oh, I wonder also if I've offended an old friend, as I've not yet had an e-mailed response to our last communication. Perhaps I should be less frank in future, regardless of the fact that my opinion was certainly sought, on a certain sensitive issue. I think often of our near neighbour whose health is rapidly declining, and whose constant complaints result in his wife seeking time away as often as possible, and how it is that we tend to do the best we can in very uncomfortable situations, and our devices don't always work as well as we hope they might.
Am I stereotypical? I'm not entirely certain of that. Of all our neighbours there is only one woman with whom I can discuss a piece of world literature, or arcane and not too well-published things happening in the world around us. It was to this same neighbour, much younger than I, that I turned several years ago when I sought someone of like mind to accompany me to the anti-war demonstration in Ottawa. Now there's a story in itself. Our neighbour is married to a man of Egyptian descent, had in fact lived herself in Egypt with him for a few years. When I knocked on their door, seeking company to demonstrate against a war the U.S. meant to wage in Iraq, they are first refused. Ten minutes later she knocked on our door; her husband Mustafa, had said to her, what if he was tired, if I could manage to get out there in minus-20-degree-celcius weather on principle and commitment, then so should he. And thus it was that I had the pleasure and comfort of their company on that occasion).
I recall when I was still working and listening to the news in my small office cubicle, searching out co-workers with whom I could share my shock upon first hearing of the assassination of Indira Gandhi, then years later that of her son, Ranjit. No one knew to whom I referred, no one recognized those names. Then I was trully shocked. I harbour (well repressed) feelings about my coevals who take no interest in world affairs and literature. What a waste. I will discuss these and any other issues with anyone who might evince some interest. Do take up my offer, please.
I recall when I was still working and listening to the news in my small office cubicle, searching out co-workers with whom I could share my shock upon first hearing of the assassination of Indira Gandhi, then years later that of her son, Ranjit. No one knew to whom I referred, no one recognized those names. Then I was trully shocked. I harbour (well repressed) feelings about my coevals who take no interest in world affairs and literature. What a waste. I will discuss these and any other issues with anyone who might evince some interest. Do take up my offer, please.
If and when you see me hiking along in the ravine with my husband and our two little dogs, make the effort to return my greeting. It would make us both feel good. Mind, whenever we encounter teen-agers in the ravine, leaning over a bridge, smoking pot and trying to hide it, their responses are invariably good-natured and much appreciated. If you see me at the Salvation Army Thrift store, doing a little giving and also a little shopping, or at the Food Basics supermarket, and you see in me a stereotypical older woman, well, so what? Just do me the kindness of responding to my greeting, my smile. Believe me, it is genuine. I know we have different interests, varying backgrounds, worrying problems to face, but I know also that we have time for one another, for a brief greeting, to affirm that we have more in common than we do not.
posted by Pieface @ Wednesday, October 19, 2005
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