Arthritis Society Canvass
As usual, I procrastinated until the very last week. The entire month of September has been designated "Arthritis month", so when the canvass kit arrived, I just set it aside, knowing I had the luxury of a month before having to launch myself into action. At the end of August, September seemed a long way off, yet. But doesn't time have its habit of fugit-ting? By the time I realized there was a mere week left, I finally grudged myself into action.
Nice that the weather has been so wonderfully clement. Meaning not too cool, not too warm, no rain; just right for an amble down the street, knocking on doors, stumbling when night lights have not been turned on and the houses located too far from street lamp illumination to be of any good to me in my nocturnal pursuit. Easy does it, wouldn't want to flop either forward or backward, nor entertain thoughts of castigating a neighbour for not wanting to be disturbed.
One wonders, what do they do at Hallowe'en? Keep it nice and dark and unfriendly so that hesitant children hauling their goodies bags and trudging up dark driveways trying to keep their costumes intact will feel intimidated and not make it all the way to those darkly forbidding doors? My neighbours? Naw... Yet that's just what does happen at some houses.
Don't know why I'm so loath to make those rounds, in any event. Since once I embark on the mission to extract funds from neighbours for the goodly worthwhile charitable cause I've undertaken to represent at that particular juncture, I find so many of our neighbours who have become familiar with my beseeching face over the years, tend to welcome my presence. Unaccountably.
Other than those, that is, who refuse to acknowledge my presence as a neighbour and prefer to cling to the wicked conceit that I'm some pestiferous street interloper whose purpose is to swell my personal coffers with the proceeds of illegally, immorally wrested hard-earned cash from their unwilling hands in the pretense that I'm really representing a reputable charity.
For its from those regular excursions that I am enabled to take the pulse of the street we live on. To re-familiarize myself with friendly faces and engaging, albeit busy personalities, and they me. All is forgiven, and all is revealed. The business of exchanging pleasantries and introducing the purpose at hand is quickly accomplished. It's the other business, that of re-establishing our human bond of neighbourliness that takes time.
And thus it is that I learn that the lovely woman whom I've known for so many years living at the foot of the street and whom I fondly remember as a young pregnant mother pushing a stroller containing two infants some 16 years ago, is now separated from her husband, their father. But she's managing. They've divided the children between them. She's bought his half of the house. The hurt is now diminished, the confusion cleared away, and they're on speaking terms. She now has a puppy.
That so-friendly man halfway down the street who also greets me with warmth and engages me in conversation of a political/historical bent, and whom I know is an oncologist, in fact the chief of oncology at our largest hospital, has self-diagnosed with prostate cancer. Down the street, second house from the corner, another prostate cancer case, but this one without hope, the disease too long undiscovered and the prognosis is one of severe morbidity.
Next door, the young girl turned young woman who, four years earlier was adamant she wanted to be a pop singer, is now attending university. When her parents are both at work, she entertains a young man who drives a bright red car. Woe betide that emerging nubility should her mother return early from work. Her aspirations are bright with promise; medical school, specializing in paediatrics.
Our old friend down the street whom we too seldom see of late, still recovering from his own bout with prostate cancer, although surgery took place three years ago, and with whom contact is mostly via the Internet, plus the occasional drop-by. He's scheduled now for heart bypass surgery. Good thing too, for when it's done, he'll be able to resume something resembling his former level of physical activity.
The family up the street, both lawyers and cold as ice, whose children will have nothing to do, like their parents, with anyone on the street. They're in ownership of two Shelties. My husband calls them "the neurotics". The Shelties, that is. No one can pass by that house on the street without the dogs hurling themselves insanely at the living room window. When we pass by, four houses past theirs, to enter the ravine for our daily walk, the Shelties hurl themselves passionately at the fence, slavering, trying to impose themselves on our landscape.
When I knock at that door, the paterfamilias responds, holding a beautiful, tiny Yorkie. Obviously, a new puppy. Newly acquired? Just puppy-sitting for someone? I'd ask, but he curtly disavows my purpose, and slams shut the door, neatly catching the two Shelties swarming purposefully toward the entrance with the obvious intention of pushing past it. And I wonder at the fate of that tiny animal in the midst of those sadly disturbed psyches.
At my next-door neighbour's I spend an inordinate amount of time. We prattle. We see one another fairly frequently, giving occasion to pass information of interest relating to families, friends and acquaintances, and street occurrences. This represents yet another opportunity. Her husband enters the front door, their pre-pubescent son in tow, wearing his clothing inside out. A requirement for some peculiar reason, at this meeting of the hockey club he's just attended.
At two houses frantic fathers left in charge for the night are busy putting their very young children to bed for the night. I am asked to return another night. At another house newly granted parenthood I interrupt the man of the house assiduously vacuuming, as his wife has not had the opportunity to attend to such mundane needs, glued as she is to the demands of their new-but-growing baby. Their sad-eyed beagle is as eager for attention as always.
There's our neighbours who spent so much time and energy, let alone savings, in presenting their daughter with a traditionally ostentatious Sikh wedding. They're still recovering. But their attention now is diverted to their son. He's grown from the adorable tiny black-eyed cherub we first knew to a young man with a changing voice. Wedded to hockey. Trouble is he's been fainting lately, and doctors have been unable to diagnose the problem, since all tests come back normal.
His father complains about how thin the boy is, and he most certainly is. He has no appetite, his mother says. He will not eat meat, does not like fish, nor does he eat dairy products. Nothing seems to appeal to the boy. He looks anorexic. Might that be possible? I keep that thought to myself; after all, they have consulted with medical experts. Perhaps another time, if the condition persists. His parents dote on him, worry about him. So what else is new?
I'm glad to get home for the evening. Will end up venturing out, to complete the canvass, on two more occasions before I'm finished. Our two little dogs wait anxiously at the front door for my return.
Nice that the weather has been so wonderfully clement. Meaning not too cool, not too warm, no rain; just right for an amble down the street, knocking on doors, stumbling when night lights have not been turned on and the houses located too far from street lamp illumination to be of any good to me in my nocturnal pursuit. Easy does it, wouldn't want to flop either forward or backward, nor entertain thoughts of castigating a neighbour for not wanting to be disturbed.
One wonders, what do they do at Hallowe'en? Keep it nice and dark and unfriendly so that hesitant children hauling their goodies bags and trudging up dark driveways trying to keep their costumes intact will feel intimidated and not make it all the way to those darkly forbidding doors? My neighbours? Naw... Yet that's just what does happen at some houses.
Don't know why I'm so loath to make those rounds, in any event. Since once I embark on the mission to extract funds from neighbours for the goodly worthwhile charitable cause I've undertaken to represent at that particular juncture, I find so many of our neighbours who have become familiar with my beseeching face over the years, tend to welcome my presence. Unaccountably.
Other than those, that is, who refuse to acknowledge my presence as a neighbour and prefer to cling to the wicked conceit that I'm some pestiferous street interloper whose purpose is to swell my personal coffers with the proceeds of illegally, immorally wrested hard-earned cash from their unwilling hands in the pretense that I'm really representing a reputable charity.
For its from those regular excursions that I am enabled to take the pulse of the street we live on. To re-familiarize myself with friendly faces and engaging, albeit busy personalities, and they me. All is forgiven, and all is revealed. The business of exchanging pleasantries and introducing the purpose at hand is quickly accomplished. It's the other business, that of re-establishing our human bond of neighbourliness that takes time.
And thus it is that I learn that the lovely woman whom I've known for so many years living at the foot of the street and whom I fondly remember as a young pregnant mother pushing a stroller containing two infants some 16 years ago, is now separated from her husband, their father. But she's managing. They've divided the children between them. She's bought his half of the house. The hurt is now diminished, the confusion cleared away, and they're on speaking terms. She now has a puppy.
That so-friendly man halfway down the street who also greets me with warmth and engages me in conversation of a political/historical bent, and whom I know is an oncologist, in fact the chief of oncology at our largest hospital, has self-diagnosed with prostate cancer. Down the street, second house from the corner, another prostate cancer case, but this one without hope, the disease too long undiscovered and the prognosis is one of severe morbidity.
Next door, the young girl turned young woman who, four years earlier was adamant she wanted to be a pop singer, is now attending university. When her parents are both at work, she entertains a young man who drives a bright red car. Woe betide that emerging nubility should her mother return early from work. Her aspirations are bright with promise; medical school, specializing in paediatrics.
Our old friend down the street whom we too seldom see of late, still recovering from his own bout with prostate cancer, although surgery took place three years ago, and with whom contact is mostly via the Internet, plus the occasional drop-by. He's scheduled now for heart bypass surgery. Good thing too, for when it's done, he'll be able to resume something resembling his former level of physical activity.
The family up the street, both lawyers and cold as ice, whose children will have nothing to do, like their parents, with anyone on the street. They're in ownership of two Shelties. My husband calls them "the neurotics". The Shelties, that is. No one can pass by that house on the street without the dogs hurling themselves insanely at the living room window. When we pass by, four houses past theirs, to enter the ravine for our daily walk, the Shelties hurl themselves passionately at the fence, slavering, trying to impose themselves on our landscape.
When I knock at that door, the paterfamilias responds, holding a beautiful, tiny Yorkie. Obviously, a new puppy. Newly acquired? Just puppy-sitting for someone? I'd ask, but he curtly disavows my purpose, and slams shut the door, neatly catching the two Shelties swarming purposefully toward the entrance with the obvious intention of pushing past it. And I wonder at the fate of that tiny animal in the midst of those sadly disturbed psyches.
At my next-door neighbour's I spend an inordinate amount of time. We prattle. We see one another fairly frequently, giving occasion to pass information of interest relating to families, friends and acquaintances, and street occurrences. This represents yet another opportunity. Her husband enters the front door, their pre-pubescent son in tow, wearing his clothing inside out. A requirement for some peculiar reason, at this meeting of the hockey club he's just attended.
At two houses frantic fathers left in charge for the night are busy putting their very young children to bed for the night. I am asked to return another night. At another house newly granted parenthood I interrupt the man of the house assiduously vacuuming, as his wife has not had the opportunity to attend to such mundane needs, glued as she is to the demands of their new-but-growing baby. Their sad-eyed beagle is as eager for attention as always.
There's our neighbours who spent so much time and energy, let alone savings, in presenting their daughter with a traditionally ostentatious Sikh wedding. They're still recovering. But their attention now is diverted to their son. He's grown from the adorable tiny black-eyed cherub we first knew to a young man with a changing voice. Wedded to hockey. Trouble is he's been fainting lately, and doctors have been unable to diagnose the problem, since all tests come back normal.
His father complains about how thin the boy is, and he most certainly is. He has no appetite, his mother says. He will not eat meat, does not like fish, nor does he eat dairy products. Nothing seems to appeal to the boy. He looks anorexic. Might that be possible? I keep that thought to myself; after all, they have consulted with medical experts. Perhaps another time, if the condition persists. His parents dote on him, worry about him. So what else is new?
I'm glad to get home for the evening. Will end up venturing out, to complete the canvass, on two more occasions before I'm finished. Our two little dogs wait anxiously at the front door for my return.
Labels: Miscellaneous, Particularities, Values
posted by Pieface @ 6:14 PM
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