For Every Thing There Is a Season
And for every season there is an enterprise, a goal, an anticipation, a promissory note of intent. It's Spring, the month of April, Daffodils are pushing their bright green shoots out of the still-damp earth, all of this very symbolic. In fact, the Canadian Cancer Society has long established its major fund-raising drive throughout the month of April, with the bright yellow Daffodil the symbol of its presence, its place, its promise of hope for the future for so many who suffer both personally and by personal extension.Yes, of course I agreed once again that I would conduct a door-to-door canvass on the street where I live. And when I had a call of enquiry from the Canadian National Institute for the Blind to go out and canvass for the month of May on their behalf I agreed then too. Having pledged to myself months earlier that this year will be different; I will not, repeat, not! canvass again for four or five different charities, one hard upon the other as I have done the last several years.
I'm anxious about starting, wanting to begin, to get it over with, to leave as much time/space between one canvass and the next, so people won't get too annoyed seeing me time and again at their doors, asking for charitable contributions for these good causes. Good causes, in my estimation, perhaps not theirs, although I cannot really understand people refusing to contribute to such public enterprises reflecting the suffering of other human beings: The Heart and Stroke Association, The Canadian Diabetes Association, The Arthritis Association, The Salvation Army, to name but a few, not all of which are dear to my heart, but all of which do deserve a second thought. And what's a few dollars' worth of contribution really cost? In the aggregate it can mean a significant difference in terms of alleviating pain for sufferers, providing research funds for medical scientists. All geared toward making the world a better place for everyone.
Today we had perfect spring weather. It was mild by early afternoon after a frigid morning start. We had a gentle breeze, and plenty of clear skies. Birds were singing happily, we saw butterflies on the wing, neighbourhood lawns are just about completely released from their snow covering. So, after dinner, I collected my gear: Canvass kit - check; pen in working order - check; reading glasses - check; change in coin and bills - check.
First stop, directly next door. And can I recall whether the house numbers increase or decrease? not likely. So, while his father has gone off to retrieve some cash for his contribution, I check with the 12-year-old neighbour and he cannot remember his house number. This is one smart kid. I tell him to brush up on his fundamentals, otherwise should he ever get lost, how will he ever find his way back home? He blushed, fudged, said he had just finished his math homework and doing it kind of made mush of his memory. I can relate to that.
Next stop, the home of a young couple with three young children, all under six. Won't they be glad and happy this coming summer when the newly-released cheques to families for children under six find their delightful way into waiting mailboxes? Yes, indeed. Catherine is always good about donating, at least to the Cancer Society. Whenever I have the misfortune to ring up her happily charming and uxorious husband I hear the same sad sorry excuse: Oops, Catherine is out, she has the cash and the cheques; can you come back? I struck pay dirt this time, good on me.
Off I go again. Trundling down the street toward me is the Happy Giant Shaped Like A Bowling Pin. He's a lawyer with the Armed Forces, a truly genial chap. I chide him for not having called a neighbourhood get-together to forewarn us all of his intent to leave us for greener pastures. Victoria, he confirms, and I commiserate with him. Dear dear, leaving frigid Ottawa for benignly-beautiful Victoria, how pitiable. The "For Sale" sign went up on his front lawn only this afternoon. I miss the guy already, all seven feet-and-paunch of him.
I call next on Mohindar, against my better judgement, given the fact that he hasn't been able to work for more than a year, ever since he had that operation on his right shoulder which turned out to be somewhat less successful than he had been led to believe. It hadn't relieved the pain he suffered, in fact increased it, while proportionally decreasing his arm's mobility. So that he now has to enlist the help of his 14-year-old and very amiable son Imram, to help him do things around the house. His wife has a well-paying job, but still we're talking one salary. We exchange small pleasantries, second time today, and I resume my predatory pursuit.
The young couple who moved in a few years ago, both cheerfully friendly and as yet unanchored by children, although they did adopt an adorable beagle which exhibits all the character traits of its owners. Makes little matter which of the two I come across when canvassing for any cause. They each feel compelled to give back to their community, their society. All it costs me is the pleasure of seeing their young faces, and a few backstrokes for their excited little dog, sniffing our own on my clothing.
I'm on a roll, and despite my initial (as always) reluctance to launch out this evening (and do so anyway as a kind of penance to be paid ritually for the future enjoyment of the promise of late spring) I tell myself I'll do the entire upper half of the street this evening, scribble down house numbers where no one's home to call back a second evening out, then head back for home.
My own sacrifice of time won' be all that significant, and I'll manage to catch up and fill in whatever I've left undone for the evening. Like the letter I've got to complete to our grandchild. It's replete with all manner of little jokey one-liners for kids I got off a few Internet sites, coloured up with a number of cartoons and she'll enjoy it.
All in a day's work. Obligations and pleasures.
posted by Pieface @ Tuesday, April 11, 2006
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