Not Forgotten

I had been living in the big city of Calgary for three whole days.

My roommate got home from work just after I did.

“Hey,” she said. “How as your day?”

“It was good,” I told her . “I . . .”

“We've been invited to a party,” she said, sorting through the day's mail.

I stared at her. “But I don't know anyone.”

“Oh, it was our Landlord,” she said. “He's always throwing parties. And we're invited.” She looked at me. “He's quite a guy,” she added. “You'll never forget him!”

“Oh. Umm . . . okay.”

“Soo . . . let's go.”

“What? Now?!”

“Sure.”

I discovered that our Landlord lived in the apartment just below us.

And that the party was already well under way when we got there.

Food. Drinks. Laughter.

Loud music.

And lots and lots of people.

Lots.

We edged our way in.

“How did you get invited to this?” I shouted into her ear.

“He was out on the balcony having a smoke when I got home,” she said.

“Oh.”

“Come on. He wants to meet you.”

We worked our way through the crowded room.

As she edged me past yet another knot of happily engaged people, I happened to glance up at the wall closest to us.

Covering most of it, was the RCMP crest.

“Huh. Look at that!” I shouted. “The RCMP crest!”

My roommate nodded. “Yeah!” she shouted back. “Our Landlord used to be in the RCMP!”

“Cool!” I studied it as we made our slow way past. It must have been about four feet square.

Bright and shining in the dim room.

“Wow!” I shouted “If every officer wore one of those, it'd be like wearing a bullet-proof shield!”

And it was at that precise moment that the entire room happened to be drawing its collective breath in its collective conversations.

And the current song ended.

My comment rang out over the quiet room as though it had been shouted.

Which it had.

It was also at that exact time that my roommate stopped in front of a man in a wheelchair.

Obviously a quadriplegic.

“Umm . . . this is our Landlord,” she said. She leaned toward him. “This is my new roommate!”

The man was drinking a beer through a straw. He nodded and smiled at his newest permanently-crimson-faced tenant. “Wish I'd had one of those 'bullet-proof shields',” he said.

“Ummm . . . yeah,” I managed.

“Would have come in quite handy.”

“Yeah,” I said again.

My roommate and I moved on.

“Wow! Look at the time!” I said. “We should be probably be getting back to the apartment!”

We had been there for a grand total of about five minutes.

And it was 4:00 in the afternoon.

But definitely time to head home.

After that initial awkward meeting, we were in his home many times.

Along with most of the people in the apartment building.

Always, he was cheerful and smiling.

And welcoming.

With never a word over the injury, sustained while on duty, that changed his life forever.

My roommate was right.

I never forgot him.

Heroes

The school massacre in Newtown Connecticut has been in the news again recently.

The stories are still branded in the memory.

Horrific tales of terror, panic and death.

And the agony that followed.

But out of those stories have risen tales of heroism and bravery unequalled anywhere in history.

The principal and school psychologist who lost their lives as they rushed toward danger when the first shots were heard.

The teachers who hid children in closets and cupboards and bathrooms and then kept them absolutely quiet and safe as terror stalked past.

And those who used their last shield, themselves, in a desperate and often futile bid to save the lives of the little children in their care.

They are true heroes.

In every sense of the word.

And I weep for them and their sacrifice.

It has gotten me thinking of the heroes in my life.

The men and women who have appeared, sometimes fleetingly, and had a profound and lasting influence.

My Mom, who taught me responsibility, caring for others and to always, always be kind.

My Dad, who taught me the value of integrity, hard work and a sense of humour.

My eldest brother who taught me generosity.

My next older brother, who taught me the joy of friendship.

My oldest sister, who showed me true patience.

My youngest sister, who is a constant example of focused energy and unfettered joy.

My youngest brother, who showed me that one must never quit. That by keeping on, great things are accomplished.

There were others.

Teachers who spent their entire lives . . . teaching.

Store owners who cared.

Neighbours who watched out for.

People who appeared only briefly and taught me wonderful, important things.

And, more recently, the men and women manning the front lines in our own war with Covid.

None of them have had to make the ultimate sacrifice on my behalf.

None of them will ever appear in a newspaper or on TV as a description of their heroism is proclaimed aloud.

But still, they are heroes.

And they need recognition.

So to those whose actions are so justifiably blazoned across news headlines and TV spots.

And those whose quiet contribution is not as noticeable or dramatic.

I am offering a prayer of gratitude today.

Thank you.

All of you.

Miss Woronoski

Miss Wornoski and her 31 little readers
That's me on the far right, second row.
With my eyes shut.
Sigh.

I love to read.

It started very early.

Grade one.

Miss Woronoski taught me.

I don't remember the mechanics of learning.

Only the sudden explosion of knowledge that came with recognizing series of letters strung together.

Miss Woronoski had a list of words on a large flip chart. And each of us in the class was taken, publicly, through it. I remember her pointing to each word with a long, slender stick and the victim participant having to then read it out.

A word about the stick. It was about three feet long, with a soft, squishy, plastic, cone-shaped tip. Tons of fun to play with when the teacher wasn't in the room.

Ahem . . .

Day by day, she worked her way around the room. Closer and closer to me.

Who would have guessed that panic was one of the subjects taught in the first grade?

Well, it was.

If I would have studied the chart, I would have realized that I could read every word on it.

But I didn't. I just glanced at it briefly with silent 'deer-in-the-headlights' terror.

Thus started a pattern in my life that has served me far too well.

But I digress . . .

Finally, it was my turn. Miss Woronoski looked at me. “Diane.”

Everything I had ever known simply . . . fled. Taking my blood and body temperature with it.

A now-frozen lump, I turned slowly and stared at her.

“Its your turn, dear,” she said softly.

Her words might as well have been: Ready! Aim! Fire!

I was about to die.

I swallowed.

And nodded.

The pointer was raised.

I watched as it moved.

Sooo slowly.

Tapped on the first word.

“And,” I said, shakily.

Next word.

“The.”

Next. Ooh, a toughie.

“Into.”

Next.

“For.”

And so it went.

Pointer . . . pointed.

I said the word.

Pointer moved on.

I was doing it!

The panic started to ebb.

With only one slight hesitation, on the unbelievably difficult word, 'house', I was done.

Faster than anyone.

Miss Woronoski smiled. “Very well done, Diane,” she said.

I had done it!

Celebrations were in order.

“Diane, sit down.”

Later.

She handed me my first. Real. Book. “Here, dear, read this,” she said.

And she moved on to the next student.

I stared at the book she had given me.

The Little White House.

There was a picture of a boy riding a horse on the cover.

We were instant friends.

I opened it and, for the first time began to read a story to myself.

Riveting tales of Tom, Betty and Susan as they:

1. Helped their parents
2. Got presents
3. Rode Pony
4. Played with Flip

The magic had begun.

There is a codicil . . .

My Husby and I were on a book-signing tour through the US.

We stopped at a tiny little restaurant in tiny-er Dell, Montana, called the Calf-A.

Exceptional food, especially the roast beef.

And pie to die for.

Sorry. Moving on . . .

The restaurant was housed in what had been the little country school.

The blackboards and even some of the pictures and furniture were still there.

On a shelf was a stack of old text books.

While waiting for my order, I wandered over and looked at them.

And there, right in the middle was my book.

My first book.

Just as I remembered it.

I dragged it out and hurried back to our table.

“Look!” I shoved it under my Husby's nose. “Look! It's my first book!

I sat down and opened the cover.

Instantly, I was transported back to my sunny classroom at Milk River Elementary.

To my seat beside the windows.

Right in front of the teacher's desk.

I could smell the chalk dust.

And see Miss Woronoski taking yet another student through her chart of words.

Paradise.

I had nearly read The Little White House through by the time our meal arrived.

Not a statement on how long it took to be served.

But rather on how quickly I could now read.

Thank you, Miss Woronoski.

You changed my life.

Lights

We drove along, my folks and me,

And siblings, categorically,

I don’t know where we all had been,

Now we were heading home again.

Along the road, its twists and curves,

Dad drove along with care. And swerves.

And I, with nose against the glass

Was watching small poles that we passed.

Each one lit up when we drove by,

When passed, went dark. I wondered why,

And how they knew just when to light,

To keep us safe, when out at night.

Then all at once, there in my brain,

I had an im-pres-sion, again.

Quite suddenly, for sure, I knew,

What lit the poles there in my view.

Each pole was lighted just for me,

By little ‘pole men’ I can’t see.

Their lighting was a perfect mix,

Of strength, agility, and sticks.

‘Twas kind of them, I’m sure you know,

To flip that little switch below.

And light the pole for us to see,

So we could navigate safely.

I thanked them, each and every one,

“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” Done.

My mom looked back inquiringly,

“What are you doing, Dear?” asked me.

“I’m thanking all the pole guys, Mom.”

Confused, she frowned at me, said, “Ummm…

Okay. If that’s what makes you glad.”

Then turned and shook her head at dad.

All this was many years ago,

And I learned fast. (And sometimes slow.)

And whether old, or youngest waif,

That life has lights. They keep you safe.

And when you've safely passed on through,

Please thank your little pole men, too.

Mondays do get knocked a lot,

With poetry, we three besought,

To try to make the week begin,

With gentle thoughts--perhaps a grin?

So Jenny and Delores, we,

Now post our poems for you to see.

And when you’ve read what we have brought,

Did we help? Or did we not . . .

And next week, cause we've seen the light, 

We tackle 'PEOPLE' with our might!

To Dads

We are a story-telling family.

I know this won’t come as a surprise.

Every day, throughout our children’s growing-up years, much time was spent in reading (or simply telling) stories.

Many of the best were told while sitting around the table after the evening meal.

Sometimes, for hours.

But the most precious were those told by their father after everyone was scrubbed, brushed, pajama-clad and in bed.

That’s when the Hobbit, Uncle Wiggly, and Dr. Seuss came over for a visit.

For many years, every evening, several small Tolleys could be found with little clean bodies curled up under warm blankies, but minds and imaginations far, far away as their father took them on adventure after bookcover-bound adventure.

Surely the best of times.

One evening, because of pressing duties, their father was absent.

It’s didn’t happen often.

The story-telling passed, necessarily, to me.

Everyone was ready.

Everyone was set.

Mom came in with the book.

It went something like this . . .

“Mom?! Where’s Dad?”

“You know Dad has a meeting tonight.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Okay, kids, where did Dad leave off?”

“Ummm . . . Uncle Wiggly . . .” the voice trailed off.

“There! Where the bookmark is!”

“Oh. Right. Okay, let’s go.”

Reading commences . . .

After a couple of pages, a small, rather sleepy little voice, “You read good, Mom, but I like it when Dad reads.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. He does the voices.”

Here’s to all the Dads in our lives.

Going out to work to support. Staying home to raise and nurture.

And read to.

Thank you.

P.S. A side note: One of the kids’ favourite books was Green Eggs and Ham by Dr. Seuss. They shook their heads over the main character’s inability to even consider the possibility of eating green eggs.

With ham.

One morning after a particularly strongly worded joint condemnation of said character, their Dad greeted them with a breakfast of green scrambled eggs. With colour-coordinated ham.

They wouldn’t eat them.

Story time continues . . .