The Prophet of Yorkville

After a relatively chilly summer, we’re having a gorgeous autumn in Toronto. For the past week the weather has been sunny and warm, blue and green with early hints of red and gold leafiness. On Wednesday I cycled through Yorkville, the posh neighbourhood of boutiques and banks (I was going to the bank). On a street corner decorated with manicured trees in brick planters, a man looking a tad ragged around the edges called out in a business-like, almost professorial manner:  'Everyone! Listen! Close the schools! Get out of the office! Be outside now! We're going to have a TERRIBLE winter!'   I heard him repeating the commandment as I pedalled down the block. Maybe he was God.

 Anyway, I listened. I kept the two younger kids out of school the next day (well, it was Rosh Hashanah) and have not been back to my windowless office since Tuesday. I spent half of today sitting outside watching younger son play in a soccer tournament, which, miracle of miracles, after 2.5 hours of football with no substitutes, his team won.  Hooray. The dog had a great time too, scrounging for discarded pizza crusts on the sidelines.

Ploughed through a sticky morass of traffic to get home, tired, sun-kissed, victorious, celebrating with takeaway Thai food, and feeling virtuous for heeding the prophecy of the Yorkville Yeller.  Son interrupted my self-gratulation: ‘Mom, I think I left my backpack at the park.’ What’s in it, I enquired. ‘My phone, my wallet, my metro pass, my house-key.’  Oh, is that all? The tournament organizer replied to my frantic messages: nope, not with her. We appealed for help to elder son’s friend, who lives near the park, and he came thrillingly to the rescue, galloping off to investigate. At Rennie Park, with the help of his phone’s flashlight app, he found a lone blue-and-white backpack, along with one of our expensive BPA-free water bottles (‘Oh, yes, I left that too’), all contents undisturbed. Our hero!

It’s a pretty good city that way.

The Tyranny of the School Gate: A Love/Hate Relationship

Almost every weekday at 3:00 my phone starts buzzing. Elementary school lets out at 3:30; from my office, by bike, it's a 10 minute journey. From home, no more than five. Plenty of time (and yet, I know I'll be late), so I push 'snooze' and at 3:09, the annoying thing buzzes again. Repeat. At 3:18 I groan, and finally drag myself away from whatever was absorbing me: three days in the week, that would be work; the other two, perhaps reading,writing, gardening, laundry. Drinking coffee, maybe with a friend. Whatever. It doesn't matter; even the most mundane activity has its own arc from start to conclusion. Required attendance at the school gate interrupts that, and I resent it.

In the past I have been extremely grateful to the school gate and its enforced routine. It has in fact been a mainstay of my existence for over twelve years; sixteen, if you count nursery. Schools provide about 200 days per year of instruction, so that's 2400 days, approximately, of school-gate-attendance. Give or take. In the beginning, the September when my eldest entered Reception class (aka kindergarten) in Durham, I became an uneasy new supplicant at the altar, staying obediently behind the low chain link fence in the play-yard at St. Oswald's C of E Infant School. In the sunshine, then as the year progressed, in the wind and rain and bitter cold and occasional snow, with a toddler in tow and later on a baby too, I waited, slowly making new friends of the other Reception mums. Eventually the crocodile of children would straggle out, and press their little faces against the wire diamonds, looking out for a grown-up to claim. Oh, the agony of being late, back then! We would often head en masse to the little park next door, and let the children play for awhile. It was quite an evangelical establishment, that school; come spring, the children happily acted out the Crucifixion under a tree with a couple of large branches. The other mothers smiled on, benignly. Beatifically, even. I did not really fit in that group.

Moving from Durham, in The North, to Brighton, in The South, set me adrift: I had no job, no community, no friends. They came, eventually, the latter two largely from my attendance at the gate of the tiny private school we selected for our elder two, having been foiled by the state sector and the timing of our move. The youngest grew old enough to join her brothers there. Our family friendships blended into the children's, all built within the school walls but perhaps even more importantly at that old school gate. This particular school, The Fold (which, sadly, folded after we left) in fact had no gate but a front door, as if to a house, which in fact this school had been. I spent many hours in the small front hallway, crowded with other parents, reclaiming our children. At the Fold School, children whose parents did not arrive on time simply skipped out to the backyard for supervised play, free for the first half-hour (or so), then morphing into after-school childcare. If I were going to be late, I simply phoned and said so.  Many times, I arrived relatively promptly, only to be instructed by my offspring to please just wait till the end of this game, or to go away and come back later.  

Moving from Brighton to Toronto was a bigger adjustment, more traumatic in several ways, and again, the school gate provided salvation. Friends, knowledge, engagement: not only in a new city but a new country to learn. Finding familiar faces, arranging social activities for the kids and for us, the parents, were largely negotiated while collecting the children. This school gate is something between the rigid barrier erected at St. Oswald's and the relaxed hominess of the Fold. Children in Grade 6, my daughter's age, are set free into the Big Field and allowed to entertain themselves until parents arrive, or they can walk home on their own. 

Grade 6 is the final year of elementary school. Middle school looms, and parents do not escort their offspring at that age. Middle school has no gate. In truth, this child is already old enough, and sensible enough, to walk herself between school and home. Sometimes she does make the journey home with a friend, just the two of them. She resists, though, leaving school alone. She wants me to meet her. Practically, she wants me on the spot so that she can negotiate after-school social life, to  invite friends over or be invited, but also because she wants to need me still, to be a little child a little longer. 

I, on the other hand, really feel that I am ready to move on. It's nice to see my own friends at the school, but they would still be my friends even if we did not meet there. I've got their numbers.  I like being home, waiting for my children to come to me. My high-schoolers tumble through the front door and chatter over each other telling me about their day while I make tea, or empty the dishwasher, or start dinner. I feel more like my own mother at those moments. My mom never had to go through this particular transition, because from the earliest schooldays, she ushered her three children out the front door at 8:30 a.m.and received us when we got home at 3:30, until we were old enough to have our own keys. What she did in between was anybody's guess. If my sisters and I had to lay bets, we would probably have said that she sat in her bathrobe, drank coffee, and did the crossword puzzle, scurrying into clothes moments before we returned. Because there she was, ready with milk and cookies and seeming eager to hear what had happened at school. We ourselves changed into 'play clothes', ate our snack, did our homework, and ran outside to ride or roller-skate or play handball against the garage door, or snatch pomegranates from the neighbours' trees. We had to be home by the time the streetlights came on. That's how I remember it, anyway.

My sister, whose own youngest child has just started at university, said to me recently when I complained about the school runs, "I truly miss those days." I thanked her for sharing that, and tried to argue myself into appreciating them, and to cherish living in the moment. Nonetheless. Monday through Friday, at 3:18, as I reluctantly close the computer, pack up my things at the office, put a bookmark in my book, or leave the dryer half-full, I feel annoyed, and harried, and late. 

Can I be a little bit, just a tad, glad that I have a date with the school gate, for one more school year? Maybe. A tad.  At least, until the first snow falls.

Lost in the woods; at home in the ‘hood

I’ve twice gotten lost in deep woods, both times in Canada. There’s that old saying: ‘Fooled me once, shame on you; fooled me twice, shame on me.’ Well, shame on me. The first time was decades ago, perhaps 1990, on an island in British Columbia. My friend John and I lived in Berkeley, California at the time, and were on an ill-planned holiday through the province, a place which neither of us had visited (yes, relationship story there). After finding a clean hostel in Tofino, a charming town perfectly situated at the tip of a peninsula on the west coast of Vancouver Island, we decided to do an organized rainforest tour the next morning. As neither of us had brought an alarm clock, however, we overslept the departure hour. No matter, we told ourselves, surely we could manage on our own.

Ah, youth. If only we had that as our excuse.

A friendly First Nations man in a small motorboat, whose command of English was adequate but not abundant, came to understand our request, and agreed to drop us at a rickety wooden wharf on the western edge of Meares Island, an enormous body of land, home to a primary-growth temperate rainforest and a First Nations village called Opitsat. Opitsat may have been on the island, but it was certainly nowhere near the splintered landing where we disembarked. We agreed, or believed we agreed, with our taxi-boat driver that he would return for us in three hours, clambered onto the dock, and waved farewell.

There was no one else around.

A wooden walkway led from the marshy water’s edge toward the forest, and then we were on a sort of trail, slippery with mud and moss. I can’t remember our footwear but it might well have been sandals. At most we wore tennis shoes with our shorts and tee-shirts. No hats, no food, no water. No one we knew had any idea where we were, or had any expectation of seeing us in the next few days. We had left our rental car parked at the hostel, from which we had already checked out. That was the extent of our planning.

After a quarter hour of walking along the trail, we had lost it. It wasn’t hard to lose; large trunks of fallen trees forced us either to clamber over them or walk around, then picking up a path that might or might not have been our original route.  “I think we’ve been here before,” I said to John, looking at one weirdly twisted hanging vine.   

He shook his head. “No, we’re fine,” he assured me. He was Canadian, although from Ontario, and had taken on the role of host during this journey.  I rapidly lost faith in his knowledge, however, and began to panic.

“Please, can we go back to the dock?” I asked, almost in tears. Well, okay, in tears.

He eventually agreed, and we set off to retrace our steps. Again, I was sure we were walking in circles, so John pulled out his handkerchief, perhaps the only useful object we had brought along, and began to shred it to make blazes. Our fifteen minutes of inward progress took us thirty to undo, but finally we saw the ocean, the unstable wharf, and in the distance, Vancouver Island. I had never experienced such relief.

Not for long though; as we sat on the wooden planks dangling our legs, looking idly for dolphins or whales, and for our taxi driver. What if he didn’t come? What if he hadn’t understood, and was waiting for us on the far side of the island? What if we rotted away and became mere slime on the trunks of the fallen trees? What if bears ate us? Actually, we hadn’t thought of bears yet; that came later.

After an hour, a man and woman emerged from the forest, singing. They carried stout, knobby sticks, and had thick rubber boots up to their knees. They both wore hiking vests with an average of a pocket every square inch. Wide-brimmed hats shaded their eyes, whistles hung from their necks, and heavy packs on their backs. In contrast, John and I looked naked, and the couple eyed us almost in pity. They lived in Vancouver, they explained, offering us a granola bar to share, and liked to get away for a couple of days of hiking and backpacking. The whistles? Oh, they were to scare away the bears.  John and I looked at each other. We were idiots.

A boat came to collect the Vancouver couple. I could hardly stand to watch them float away. “Could we come with you?” I asked, knowing the answer. Kind, but reasonable, they pointed out that our taxi was sure to return, and if the driver did not find us, he would be in a muddle. It was true. I told them we would call their hotel when we got back; if they didn’t hear from us, please could they send rescue? Of course, they agreed, but again, my trust was insecure. I did not believe. Sadness and fear overtook me as their wake faded.

Fortunately, our taxi turned up only minutes later. O frabjous day! That was it for me and forests, I vowed. Two days later we dropped off the rental car and boarded a ferry from Victoria to Port Angeles, Washington. A fleet of dolphins leaped and cavorted alongside us as we returned to the U.S. of A.  I haven't been to British Columbia since.

Fast forward to 2014, again in Canada, this time in middle Ontario, quite a bit north of Toronto, but far south of Hudson’s Bay, where the massive province actually ends. We are visiting friends at their gorgeous and lovely cottage on a lake, but today, our last of the visit, is rainy and chill. Perfect, we think, for a walk in the woods! The two mothers, three children, and two dogs set out for a bit of a ramble. I shoved my cellphone in my backpack because I wanted to be able to take photographs, and my elder son had his because he would as soon leave it behind as a limb. I did think to bring a bottle of water, because I do that to go anywhere, even the subway in Toronto (what if it gets stuck)?

Still. Fooled me twice.

Our cheerful hostess and guide asked whether we wanted a quick thirty-minute circuit, or if we could manage a longer walk? Maybe an hour? Oh, an hour is fine, we all said, even the littlest amongst us. Under the thick green canopy, the drizzle hardly mattered. We chattered and laughed, catching glimpses of the lake and then walking deeper into the woods, climbing hills and descending into valleys, passing brambles whose blackberries were nearly ripe. “This way,” my friend pointed. Then a note of puzzlement entered her tone. “I think maybe I missed the turning I wanted. But no matter, if we carry on along this trail, we will reach the road.” “Road” perhaps overstated the nature of the long, dirt-and-gravel lane that covered the 5 or 6 kilometers leading from the paved county road to our friends’ cottage (and “cottage” rather understated the nature of their domicile).

Another ten minutes of walking indeed led us to a road and we turned right to follow a little stream. The walking was easy now, but without shelter from the trees, we were soon sodden. At the bottom of the road, my friend stopped. “H’mmm,” she said.

In a yoga studio, ‘H’mmm“ might be mistaken for a mantra, and bring on a pleasing sense of tranquillity.  In the context of a crossroads in a woods, “h’mmm” is an oddly ominous sound. “We are on the wrong trail,” she said. A map of Algonquin Park on a rusted iron plaque attached to a wooden post let us know that we had definitely drifted off-course.

Shame on me. I surreptitiously checked my bag for food. Where had we seen those berry bushes?

“Never mind,” both of us moms chorused, self-consciously bright and cheery. “We’ll just retrace our steps!” And we did, this time building small cairns and making careful ‘X’es with fallen boughs. “Isn’t this fun?” we carolled.  “Gee, that hot tub will feel nice when we get back!” My son and I spotted a pile of poo, scat, spoor… surely deer? No, more like elk. Not bear. Definitely not. Elk. “Let’s all stay together,” I suggested, brightly. Shortly after, we passed a skeleton. Not human. Not even primate. And not elk.

 “Does this hill look familiar?” My friend mused. It looked familiar to me, but then all the trails looked both familiar and strange.

“Yes,” I tried.

“No,” she shook her head. “This isn't right. Let’s go back up.” We did, up and up, passing our cairns and crosses. At what seemed the highest point, my son pulled out his phone and announced, “This way is north.” Handy, but as we didn’t know which way was home, not helpful. I pulled out my own phone and sent an email, titled ‘little bit lost’. My friend typed in a description of the last point at which she knew for sure where we were, both of us thinking, but not saying, that if the message ever arrived, it would give them a head start looking for our remains. I mean, for us.

We waited a minute or two without getting a reply, though we had left said husbands happily attached to their computers. It transpired later that they had had other fish to fry: our eleven-year-old daughters, who had also stayed behind, decided to try some science experiments. One of these involved putting hand lotion in a frying pan and turning on the burner, which set off the smoke alarms throughout the house. The fathers ran to the kitchen and prevented it from going up in flames. (In retrospect, if it had, those of us lost in the forest would have had a nice column of smoke to aim for. And I must ask the girls sometime about their null hypothesis for the experiment.)

After a little more tramping, mein hostess said, with certainty, “Here it is. I’m sure,” and turned decisively right onto a narrow, wavering trail. We all wanted to believe. We did believe. We clicked our heels together, and lo! The trail led us home. A ray of sunshine pierced the grizzled gray clouds as we reached the welcoming front door, just under two hours after leaving it. And yea, the hot tub felt wonderful indeed, as did a quick swim in the lake with my younger son. My friend, apologetic (needlessly), whipped up a quick batch of chocolate chip cookies. All in all, a successful hike. How we laughed! 

And you know what? It really was one of the highlights of the summer. 

Back to the ‘hood, for the tag end of vacation.  It’s been a full year since we moved in to this house in Harbord Village. Today in fact is the annual Harbord Village Residents’ Association Fall Fair, held in the small park directly across the street from us. 

Last year, we wandered over, wandered through, uncertain but pleased to participate and buy a few raffle tickets, spying a few familiar faces, and trying to put names to them. This year, we were in the front lines. Husband volunteered on the Silent Auction table, and I helped out serving burgers, hot dogs, barbecued corn, and pop (‘Please may I have popcorn and a hot dog?’ a girl asked. ‘We don’t have popcorn,’ I told her. My customer looked puzzled. ‘No. Pop. Like, Coke. And some corn.’ Toronto is in the pop zone. Where I grew up, it would be ‘soda’.) My shift was noon til two pm, but at 2:00 no replacement had arrived.  At 2:30 I roped in my middle child and his friend, gave them a brief training session, and said sayonara. They did a stellar job and, according to reports, enjoyed themselves (not that they admitted it to me). They’ll get credit for volunteer hours too—kids in Ontario schools must do forty hours of volunteer work before they can be graduated from high school. Through my open window right now I can hear the band playing covers of rollicking rock music.

It’s nice, being home.