Spring and Squirrely

If dishing nourishment is a good deed, then we’re kind on a daily basis to a certain wild squirrel who squats in our back yard. She answers to the name Ernie (that’s short for Ernestine, a hasty amendment after we observed that Ernie was in fact female).

Ernie is a cheeky little rodent. She bides her time near our glass sliding door, perched on her hind legs like a tiny human and trying desperately to peer in. If the door is open a gap, she’ll instantly poke her nose in. She climbs the screen like an agile little monkey and, when scolded, will do a sort of lateral creep onto the brick wall of the house, where she clings remarkably well, craning her neck to peer into our dining room. See, Ernie is convinced there’s all kinds of nonstop fun happening in the building where the free nuts come from. Ernie, by the way, favours raw almonds.

It’s springtime, so many of the wild creatures are enjoying a little seasonal nooky. But with Ernie, we can’t really tell if she’s carrying a litter, or just packing on the pounds thanks to all the treats we give her.

But it’s not a one-way feeding street by any means. In return for the squirrel num-nums, Ernie provides our family – not to mention any company we happen to have over – with endless entertainment. She bounces around the yard, clambers up and down trees, comes close to the door for a visit, hoists herself up and makes eye contact that is, quite frankly, a little eerie. Just think of it as being in the front row of a circus act, one with bold – and quite acrobatic – furry animals.

My concerns about possible fallout from our generosity are twofold. First, I’m forever fretting that our naughty rodent friend will rip a hole in the screen with her agile yet sharp little claws. And two, on the slippery slope of squirrel-human relating, I want to know – will I manage to keep a respectable distance between me and the nutty squirrel lady on My Crazy Obsession?

Don’t be taken in by that look of rodent nonchalance. She’s hankering for more almonds.

What I Learned at School

How often do you get served cake for breakfast? Those are the mornings to cherish. When your child’s educational institution invites all its parent volunteers for coffee and treats to thank them for their service, you don’t say no.

That’s why I found myself in a classroom at 7:30 one morning this week. It was a delightful event, and I certainly enjoyed chatting with the staff and many other parents at the school.

I could tell you how friendly everyone was – and impressively chipper, considering the early hour. But the person who left the biggest impression on me was neither a teacher nor a parent at the school. It was a woman whose kids don’t even go there.

So why was she there? Turns out she’s a very active volunteer at our school. What gives? I learned that her child’s own school doesn’t have a need for parent participation, so they suggested she contact ours. “I love to volunteer,” she said to me simply. And she smiled.

Hats off to you, lady. You’re an inspiration to us all. I hope you enjoyed your breakfast cake, ’cause heaven knows you’ve earned it.

They handed each of us volunteers one of these. I accept this rose.

Thanks but No Thanks

At the dinner table last night we were discussing gratitude, and ways to express it. For the first time in years, I was reminded of a token bestowed on me back when I was a teenager. I’d just finished a volunteer gig, and it so happened that one of the event organizers owned a jewellery store. As a thank you, I was thus given a silver pendant.

Now, I happen to enjoy my silver pendants, and I wear them well and often. But I’ve never actually donned this particular gift. I’ve just now gone to the trouble of digging it out of my jewellery box and taking a picture so that you, my dear readers, can see why I don’t put it on.

Not that I don’t appreciate the gift. It was kind. But I prefer to cherish it in a drawer. Come on, would you go about your business with a prominent “thank you” sign around your neck? (In the words of double-rainbow guy, what does it mean?)

I’ll take gratitude – verbally – any day. But forged in precious metal, maybe not so much.

It’s All Uphill From Here

At the end of March, my neighbour – we’ll call her “B” – had the misfortune of taking a serious tumble on the ski slopes. She came home with a broken, casted ankle, plus torn ligaments in her knee. Now that you’re squirming in sympathy pain, I’ll ease the agony by telling you just how the wondrous women in our community responded. Within a day of B’s incapacitating injury, the word had spread, and over a dozen ladies – including A, C, D and E (I kid you not!) – had planned a collection to send a decorative, yet eminently practical, fruit arrangement. Someone offered up a cane for temporary use, and another household (you might, er, guess which one) sent over a wheelchair.

The fruit arrangement arrived. I know this because B called me yesterday feeling mighty chipper. Then she penned a note of thanks to all the ladies behind the fruit bonanza. It read in part: “I have already tried a chocolate strawberry. My first indulgence in two weeks! It has perked up my mood on this dreary day… a wonderful act of kindness, and I so appreciate it!”

Well, it was a berry devastating injury, but there’s nothing like caring friends to make you feel grape – just when you think you’re plum out of positivity. (Orange you going to tell me these puns are the pits? I don’t give a fig! Oh no, stop me now…)

Q: In what way are the neighbourhood ladies like bananas? A: We come in bunches.

Swindler’s List

Certain good deeds are a no-brainer. Letting someone know they dropped a glove? Naturally. Opening the door for an old lady? Don’t even have to think about it. But some situations are trickier, like when doing a good turn could compromise your personal safety. Or when you suspect you’re being conned.

Last summer, a little girl went door-to-door on our street selling “chocolates.” I’m compelled to use the quoties around that word because the chocolate in question probably never existed. Yet the girl couldn’t have been more than eight years old, was precocious as anything – she brightly told me her sister had the same name as me, and chirped about the new school she’d be starting in September – and was cute as a button. She had a receipt book with her, the kind you can pick up at any office supply store. And her mom hovered on the sidewalk at a watchful distance, pushing a baby in a stroller.

The girl asked for four dollars in advance, explaining that she’d make a note of my order and return in two weeks with the chocolate. Of course I was suspicious. Especially after the chatty child told me where she lived – clear on the other side of the city.

But she looked up at me with her darling smile and big eyes. (I know, I know, all part of the con.) And I couldn’t resist shelling over a few bucks that I’d never see again.

The way I figure, if this family was so desperate that they’d travelled all the way to our neighbourhood with a receipt book and a story, only to scoop up a measly four dollars per house, then they needed my two toonies more than I did. We handed over the money. She never came back.

For a while, I kept my carbon copy of the receipt on my desk. I don’t know why. It showed my name and address in the little girl’s careful handwriting. I wondered whether the child was in on the scam. Perhaps she truly believed she was selling chocolates, never imagining that her struggling mom had no plans to fill the orders. I worried about the life lessons she might be learning. I worried more about whether she had enough to eat each day.

What would you do if you knew you were being defrauded, but the con artist needed a hand up all the same? Please comment! Coming on Friday: part two on this topic.

A small price to pay for a family in need?

Did He Just Tell Me to Shove It?

With snowy weather comes fresh (if blustery) opportunities to help out fellow homeowners. I know this from experience: More than once this winter I’ve been happily surprised by a big-hearted neighbour making quick work of my driveway with his personal snowplow. And my daughter, when she’s out shovelling, makes a point of clearing a path for the folks next door to us. When you’re Canadian, shovelling snow is an easy way to commit a kindness.

Or maybe sometimes not so easy. Yesterday morning, while out walking, I encountered my elderly neighbour struggling to shovel the heavy, wet chunks of snow blocking his driveway. This particular man, in his 80s, has had hip replacements and heart bypass surgery. That’s not exactly someone you want to see wrestling with a heavy load in cold weather.

I was more than willing to step in. Just one problem: This elderly cardiac patient is also a rather cantankerous fellow. He’s cordial enough when you stop to pet his dog or talk about the weather, but, apparently, don’t try to take his shovel away. “I’m fine,” he said when I offered him a hand. When I gently persisted, he angrily snapped: “I don’t need help! I can do whatever I want.”

I’m no girl scout, so far be it for me to force a senior across the street who doesn’t actually want to go. I left the man to his chore (with crossed fingers). Fickle February snow, you may be the reason my crotchety neighbour lashed out at me, but soon you’ll be vanquished for another year. March couldn’t come soon enough.

Here’s hoping the spring sunshine melts my neighbour’s heart as it does the snow in his driveway.

Storm Watch

Blowing snow, vicious winds, icy cold… what’s kind about that? But for me, last Friday’s winter storm in Toronto wasn’t without its standout moments. The city bus I was riding on, blocked by stuck vehicles, was prevented from entering the subway station. We passengers were compelled to exit the bus on the sidewalk, then faced a snowbank between us and the subway station’s front doors.

A slightly-older-than-middle-aged woman on the other side of the snowbank called out to a woman, of a similar age, who had gotten off the bus with me. “Grab my hand, grab my hand!” she called out. The lady next to me reached out and took hold. What happened next was comical: Each woman struggled valiantly to haul the other over the mound of snow, each one convinced she was giving the other a much-needed helping hand. It was a stalemate, with both women tugging at each other, before they both realized that neither actually wished to climb the snowbank. They tittered with laughter then.

Their misunderstanding may have been cleared up, but the piles of snow still aren’t. Nice to know that even in the midst of a fierce blizzard, we can bear witness to small and random acts of kindness.

Weather alert: Deep snow may cause individuals to lose track of the lower half of their bodies.

Bye-Bye, Bermuda

Home sweet home to Canada! And it is sweet, although being away was not exactly a hardship. What was meant to be a long-weekend getaway was extended into a five-day vacation when our return flight Sunday was abruptly cancelled. Weather was blamed. No matter. We were stranded in Bermuda, a haven where winter is about as harsh as a hibiscus. For us, the contrast against Toronto’s frigid February was welcome. (“You know how we can tell the Canadians?” a Bermudian driver said to me, laughing. “They’re the ones swimming in wintertime!”) Can you blame us? It was balmy and we were giddy with sunshine, palm trees and stunning blue waters.

The other thing that stood out for us in Bermuda was its colossal sense of civility. It wasn’t just the friendliness – although we witnessed that in spades – but the common courtesy. And by common, I mean it was everywhere. When you caught eyes with a passing stranger on the sidewalk, they asked how you’re doing. When a granny climbed the bus steps and announced a general “Good morning, everyone,” the entire ridership responded: “Good morning.” The words “thank you” were rampant. And they call us Canadians polite?

Maybe it’s because, with less than 65,000 people, Bermuda is more like a small town than an entire country. Or maybe it’s because these people wake up every morning with a view of the ocean, instead of an urgent need to apply an ice scraper to their windshields. Either way, it was a pleasant place to be, and pleasant people to be there with. Just think of it… an island paradise, where everyone minds their p’s and q’s.

Breathtaking Bermuda beauty: Often even nature does us a good deed.

The Shirt Off Her Back

My sweet girl knows her way around good deeds. Once or twice I’ve trumpeted her kindnesses on this blog. Very many go unsung. Today, I will sing.

My daughter’s non-profit choir held a fundraiser recently. And as the children successfully went about collecting cash from friends and rellies, their names were entered into weekly draws. In fundraising lingo this is called incentive. Of course, all the kids were pining for prizes.

On the very last day of draws, a selection of choir merchandise was laid out on the table. The second-last name to be called was music to my daughter’s ears. She approached the table to make her pick.

But there were just two items left: a pair of bluebird-coloured choir sweatshirts. One was size small – which fits my thirteen-year-old daughter to a tee (no pun intended) – and the other was extra-large.

My kid was all set to take the small shirt. Then she got a look at the slight, ten-year-old girl approaching the table after her, the kid whose name had been drawn last. My daughter sized her up (no pun intended here either), and made up her mind.

“Here, you’d better have this one,” she said, thrusting the size-small at the tinier tot.

That left my do-good daughter with an XL shirt. She can’t wear it, but she can swim in it. Still, she wants to keep it for sentimental reasons. Frame it? I’m just brainstorming here.

Kids are naturally kind. All we need to do as parents, really, is make sure it sticks.

Maybe a quilt? Still brainstorming.

Tree Amigos

Tragic stories were heard in the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy. Naturally, there were plenty of opportunities, too, for acts of kindness. My friend’s tiny but safe New York apartment, which sits empty when she and her partner are in Toronto, was well appreciated by the three displaced couples who were welcomed to cram themselves into it. Another colleague took a leadership role in running a shelter. Me, I didn’t play a part in helping anyone weather the storm. But a couple of days after the wind blew through town, I did stop on the street for an old woman who needed my help.

Actually, first I passed her on the sidewalk as we walked in opposite directions. We smiled politely at each other like we were just two ordinary pedestrians – one, a brisk walker on her way to buy a snack from the corner store, and the other, strolling more slowly, toting a cane and dragging an eight-foot branchy section of tree behind her like she does this all the time. This piece of found fallen birch was obviously a casualty of the hurricane. The question was, what did she want with it? As I walked on, I pondered the possibilities. She was quite a beautiful older woman. I imagined she had the face of an artist and that she would display the birchwood in her glorious front flower garden, or create some kind of nature-inspired sculpture. I admired her for spotting loveliness somewhere unexpected.

I left the store thinking these romantic thoughts, turned back in the direction of home, and easily caught up with the woman – who was travelling at the speed of a snail – a few minutes later.

I almost passed her again. But then: “I have to ask,” I blurted out, waving my hand toward the wood. (I’m sure my daughter would tell you in embarrassed tones how often I interrogate total strangers.)

Instead of responding to my implied question, the woman smiled, nodded, and held the end of the branch out to me. In heavily accented, broken English, she made it clear that yes, she would appreciate the help I was offering her, thank you very much. Her house was on the next corner.

That’s when I realized she was struggling beneath her burden. So I stepped up, kicking myself for not noticing earlier that she needed a hand. As we walked together, me hauling the chunk of tree and she able to walk a bit faster now, with the help of her cane, I tried to ask my question again.

She didn’t speak much English, but I finally established that her plans for the beautiful birch wood was to burn it to ashes. Yes, she’d been happy to find this treasure trove of perfectly free firewood. She couldn’t wait to put it to practical good use.

So she wasn’t a free-spirited artist after all. But she did freely express her gratitude. And if I helped a tiny bit to keep her warm over the upcoming wintry nights, that can’t be a bad thing, can it?

Break out the marshmallows.