Author: Deborah

Thank you Unsplash for the photo by Nagara Oyodo

Travelling on sidewalks, regardless of where I have been in the world, one does not have to go far before seeing artwork, messages or legacies eternally embedded in the cement. I have often wondered about these artists who turn our humdrum paths into galleries of the curios. What compels them to leave their imprints or marks on freshly paved concrete? 

Perhaps it is for legacy reasons….to show the world that they had once walked on this Earth?

If “Ellie Mae loves Howie” is etched in concrete, will their love last forever? Or at least during the lifespan of the concrete?

Does an untouched, newly poured sidewalk spark a mischievous streak in the rebellious, that nothing should be perfect?

Maybe it is the creative spirit of some individuals who envision a smooth section of concrete as a canvas, adorned with their pets’ pawprints. They see a touch of beauty that will make the world more vibrant, and no doubt everyone will admire it.

Or perhaps…none of the above.

Yesterday while in my car, I stopped at a traffic light. It was a hot, stuffy afternoon at a busy city intersection. Having travelled through this tedious junction many times, it was easy to notice a freshly paved section of the sidewalk. There was no construction equipment or workers in sight. The sidewalk was guarded by yellow tape, orange cones and reflective barriers surrounding the new sidewalk portion. 

A pedestrian caught my attention. A young man, with his head bowed, ensnared by the enchantment of his mobile device. Oblivious to the world around him, he violated the unwritten rules of construction zones. He glanced up momentarily from his phone and squeezed his slim body sideways through the narrow gaps of the barricades.

He had entered the forbidden area.

I wondered what motivated this man to violate the marked boundaries. Did he have a disregard for the rules of construction barriers, or perhaps he lacked knowledge or understanding of those rules. I believe it was simply his digital distraction that held a greater snag on him than his own safety.

In a moment of carelessness, the man stepped onto the pristine surface. He appeared to be stunned, and he strained to keep his poise. His foot plunged to the bottom of the murk, engulfing his shoe well past his ankle. He had little choice but to step forward with the other foot to keep his momentum. It, too, sunk, and both feet became submerged in the concrete.

From where I was watching, his look of shock turned instantly to panic when he realized his predicament. Was it because he feared he might shortly become a permanent part of city property? Or was it the embarrassment of leaving his footprint at one of the cities’ busiest intersections, providing his onlookers with rare entertainment while they waited for the light to change? His upper limbs flailed as he struggled for balance to pull his now heavier feet out of the suction of the wet goo.

I held my breath. I could hardly watch. It was difficult to decide whether to feel embarrassed for him, scared or entertained.

With each subsequent step, he performed a comedic ballet on the goopy, unconventional stage. Was the man going to be able to keep his balance, or was gravity going to take him down? After four more ‘less than graceful’ steps in the concrete, he was back in the safety of the solid ground.

I exhaled.

Except, gravity was not finished. It triggered a stride backward, and the man was back out for an encore. Another small dance ensued with a dramatic finale. His descent, backside first, into the cement. There was no splash. His hand which held his cell phone instinctively reached behind him to cushion his fall and his phone disappeared into the wet cement. He sat for a moment, surely wondering how to salvage his dignity or how he could possibly make this situation look anything but what it was. His self-regard seemingly became less important than his phone. He flipped over to all fours, blindly feeling around at the bottom of the concrete. Finally, he rescued his phone from the muck and wiped the sludge from it.

He must have known that he had an audience, but he did not look up to confirm. There was no way to escape that theatre of humiliation. The best he could do was to get up and move on as quickly as possible.

As he walked away, a trail of concrete plops trailed behind him. Still reluctant to look around to see who had just witnessed his incident, he returned to his digital oblivion. There he could pretend like the past few minutes did not happen.

Undoubtedly, he was relieved when the traffic light turned green. His spectators continued through the intersection, having a few moments of entertainment on that sweltering summer afternoon.

I smile now whenever I see markings of any kind in concrete and sidewalks. It makes me think of human complexity and how sometimes, we do things just because we can. I do not know the reason that the man passed through the barriers, if it was the thrill of breaking the rules, the temptation to push boundaries or the cyber psychosis that inflicts so many of us. But as this tale is a reminder to those of us who tread on a forbidden path, it is almost certain that peril awaits. An impulsive moment of carelessness that takes us by surprise leaves behind a fun story that can be shared!

As I drove away, on that afternoon, I looked in my rear-view mirror at the young man. With the added weight of wet concrete on his shoes and clothes, his trudged walk reminded me of Mr. Snuffleupagus from Sesame Street.

Last Friday, June 3rd, was the 100th day since Russia invaded Ukraine on February 24, 2022. I am sure like everyone else, it is heart-ripping to read the news. 

We are not truly living unless we are all living. 

When I hear about this war and other ongoing wars, I think of my friend Eryl. 

The first time I met Miss Eryl was in 2015 to discuss my interest in volunteering for the Unitarian Universalist United Nations Office (UU-UNO) at the First Unitarian Congregation of Toronto. Eryl had been the UU-UNO envoy for approximately 30 years. I joined Eryl for lunch in her quaint little neighbourhood at an old English pub. 

During this first meeting, she wasted no words. She dazzled me with stories, history, and quotes from Margaret Mead, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and other famous people. She talked about war and peace and had much advice about what we could do to achieve peace on Earth.  She told me that her interest in peace activism resulted from her dissatisfaction as a social worker early in her career.  She felt that she was providing ‘band-aid fixes’ to some overwhelming problems that would not have existed if there was peace in the world. Many of these problems stemmed from tragedies experienced during the Second World War. Eryl became determined to get to the source of the problem and to put an end to war. And so began Eryl’s remarkable career as an activist for peace. 

I loved everything she was saying and was inspired to join her mission. 

I wanted to be just like Miss Eryl. She was focused, spirited, and did not seem to be frightened by anyone or anything.  I used to refer to her as my 90-year-old hippie friend. At age ninety-something, I loved that she boarded a bus to go picket on Parliament Hill, travelled the world to attend peace conferences, and regularly attended lectures at the University of Toronto with her special friend Rett. 

One of the most fantastic statements I have ever heard was during that first lunch meeting at the English pub. Eryl said to me quite emphatically, “Dear Debby, (she always called me ‘Dear Debby’) “I am 91 years old, and I am not going to die until there is peace on Earth!” 

It wasn’t hard to sign up immediately as a UU-UNO volunteer, just on her enthusiasm alone. 
 
As a part of the UU-UNO gig, Miss Eryl regularly attended the annual spring seminars in New York City. In her words, “These seminars are a fountain of inspiration and a wealth of information for all ‘global citizens. During my first year as a UU-UNO assistant in 2016, Eryl asked me if I was interested in going to New York to attend the annual spring conference. I knew this was a special year for Eryl because she was selected for an international justice award. There was going to be a presentation honouring her. 

Regardless of her extensive experience in globe-trotting, I was worried about her safety travelling to New York City on her own. At the time, I somehow felt it was my role to take care of Eryl while in the big city so she could receive her award. 
 
The long bus ride to New York brought us to our hotel at approximately 10:00 pm. After unloading our luggage in the hotel room, I fully expected to turn in early, given I was rooming with a senior citizen. As I was digging out my toothbrush and jammies, from my suitcase, much to my surprise, Eryl asked as ‘chipper’ as usual, “Well, Dear Debby, do you want to go out for a drink?” 

“Like to a bar?” I asked. 

She looked a bit confused at my question and answered, “Yes. Surely there must be something open.”

“Absolutely!” I said. 

I was certainly amused that my groovy hippie friend and I are going out on the town! I secretly hoped to have her energy when I get to her age.

So off we went, Eryl, her cane, and I ventured out to find a local bar for a glass of wine. I think the wine in New York is much stronger than what I was used to. Either that or the wine glasses were much deeper! After finishing my wine, I had a foggy but horrible sense of panic. I scolded myself, “Deborah…what a terrible guardian. You are supposed to be taking care of Eryl, but instead, on the first night out, you’re getting inebriated! We still need to walk back to our hotel in a strange New York neighbourhood, and it’s close to midnight. Anything could happen! Worse yet, how could you let a senior drink. Her glass was the same size. Surely, she must feel tipsy too…she is half your size! What if she falls or passes out? What if she is on medication that would become ineffective with alcohol?”

I paid the bill, and we left the bar for our long journey back to the hotel. It was only a two-block walk, but it felt longer. Our steps were slow, cautious, and calculated. I debated with myself several times to ask Eryl to borrow her cane. 

We got back to the hotel safely. The next morning Eryl sprung out of her bed full of energy and excitement for the day. I, on the other hand, was not doing so well. I made a mental note for when my self-inflicted migraine goes away, to ask Eyrl how it is that she appears to be so bubbly and full of life. 

During our next three days, Eryl led the way showing me the sites of New York City. We went to plays, movies, more pubs and of course, the reason we were there, the UU-UNO conference at the United Nations. It was like nothing I had ever experienced. From our seats in the General Assembly (which included microphones), we could pretend like we were country representatives listening to important world issues. I had shivers of pride during the opening announcement when Canada was thanked for its support of the conference. We listened to passionate speakers with incredible stories of suffering, injustice, and triumph. It was such a thrill to be at the United Nations and meet these exceptional people.  Miss Eryl received her award. I was proud of this little lady as she delivered a humble and mighty speech on peace. 

Eryl was ‘spot-on’ in describing the conference as a fountain of inspiration. I was grateful to her for this opportunity. It was an extraordinary life-changing experience that I will remember fondly… and as it turned out, Eryl took good care of me. 

I believe Miss Eryl was right when she said that she will not die until there is peace on Earth. Though she is no longer here with us in body, her spirit will continue to live on as a force for peace. Even when there is absolute peace (because Eryl said that there will be), I will remember her as a remarkable woman, whose ‘mono-maniacal heart’ committed her entire life so that everyone on the planet could enjoy (as Eryl used to say) “a world in one peace/piece.”

And as Eryl concluded every one of her emails…. Peace will prevail. 

Fun fact: 

Greece is rich in history and culture and oozes good health, rest, and renewal. Not only do the beaches, beautiful weather and exotic foods encourage relaxation, but the country takes the afternoons off. 

Greek siesta hours are between 2:00 pm to 6:00 pm in the summer and 3:00 pm to 5:00 pm in the winter.  It is considered bad manners and is against the law to call a Greek household during these times of rest. 

Thank you Unsplash for the photo by James Ting 

When asked about a childhood moment that impacted his young life, my neighbour Nick from Greece wrote this story. 

Written by Nick.

There are many different countries in the world, as someone I loved dearly used to say.  Countries where all people look alike and live the same way.  They believe in the same God and have the same system of values… and tend to be the most peaceful countries in our world.  But there are countries where the plurality of people and lifestyles is so diverse that it makes the country restless, and those are the most beautiful and interesting countries. 

But I was born in a country exactly in the impossible middle.  My father struggled to identify with the country’s majority culture.  However, at times, he could do so very diplomatically.  But his father never could.  My grandpa always knew who he was and how he had to prioritize the components of his identity.  To this very day, he proudly prioritizes the origin that makes him belong to the minority, not the country’s majority culture.  That was not the case with me because I was born precisely in the middle, to a father fully originating from an ethnic minority and to a mother fully originating from the national majority.  I would speak and understand both minority and majority languages with the same ease, have friends from either group and identify as both at all times without difficulty.

In the summers, we, and by we, I mean all the ethnicities, would move from the majority of centers and spend time in the rural lands of our origin in the mountains of our country.  Many would live, act, and enjoy our annual get-together as a cohesive whole, celebrating the common culture they were coming from.  During those times, only one language was spoken, only one type of music was sung in only one language, and only one language was used to argue.  This homogeneity spans across generations as kids, parents, grandparents and often great-grandparents live together in the village for almost two months.  This linguistic and cultural homogeneity was rarely broken by a mother or father whose life had almost accidentally taken them to this place by marrying an ethnic person.  Of a different ethnic background. The times were slowly changing, and more mixed-origin marriages would occur, initially with some skepticism.  Over time it would transform into acceptance and trust that the ethnic culture was strong enough not to risk spoiling. And I was the offspring of a mixed marriage of this kind.

The consequences of the changing times could not be felt by everyone.  Older adults were usually way past this point in life.  They had decided what to identify as, but teenage kids were only beginning to understand the complexities of their ethnic origin on a national and personal level.  Of course, an exploration as difficult as this had its ups and downs.  Still, the realizations of this origin, both national and personal, were often far more complex for the teenagers of mixed heritage like me.  While I could enjoy the benefits of belonging equally to both worlds all year round, I always identified with both roots.  I never imagined that there would come a moment in time that I should farewell, or rather prioritize just one aspect of me.  And I never imagined that the trigger would come from within the circle of my extended family.

My grandma usually took my cousin and me to play with her sister’s grandchildren every evening.  The heat of my southern country eased up and gave more space for the mountainous breeze to reach our stone-walled yards and cool us.  During this time of the day, you would see people leaving their stone-made houses to go to the village’s main square and socialize.  Then, kids of all ages flooded the narrow cobble-stone pathways to play all sorts of games.  We played hide-and-seek.  Always!  It was as if we had silently agreed that we all liked to escape reality and look for each other in turns, like we all ran after a hidden truth.

I could always hide well, go long or not, take risks to become one with my surroundings and always succeed.  When I wanted not to be seen, I could manage not to be seen.  During hiding, I would often use my invisibility to observe things and actions and hear conversations otherwise inaccessible to me.  I almost always lost track of time immersed in observation while the others were looking for me.  That day, I decided to hide by my cousin’s bedroom window.  She and I were never on the same page, and we often argued about silly things but never disliked each other; at least, that’s what I thought.  I saw she was talking with someone while casually relaxing on her bed.  I thought this would be my aunt, but I have never been sure.  The person on the other end of the call seemed to be only listening, not talking.  My cousin was going off about something.  “Typical,” I thought to myself.  I got distracted by the neighbour’s cat, who had noticed my presence while on a neighbourhood patrol.  Suddenly I heard my name.  The discussion was somehow about me all along, I realized.  I listened closely.  “He doesn’t belong here,” she said, “he is different,” she continued.  “We are not mixed, and he is.  He is…” I could not hear more; I couldn’t take more!  I left my hiding spot and ran back home without saying anything or explaining what had happened.  All I wanted was to talk to my grandpa.  I knew he would understand!  I was my grandma’s relative, I thought.  She would certainly like me to forget what I heard to avoid a scandal.  I believed she was my dad’s favourite niece, so could he believe me?  He could say I didn’t listen well, or it was not about me even.  My mom would never understand.  At times I felt she was not fully part of this ethnic world!  My grandpa would undoubtedly understand.  He was my best choice!

I ran.  Fast.  I knocked on the door.  I was panting.  I had run like I wanted to disappear or maybe like I wanted to escape the risk of him not being at home.  I knew it was his time to go to the square.  But there he was… almost ready to leave but still there.  I ran to him, telling him what had happened.  He smiled, and he hugged me.  How much I needed that hug, I thought.  Then he put me on his lap and started talking.  He was calmer than I thought he would be after I had told him what I had overheard.  “Sooner or later, this would happen,” he said.  “We all have to figure out our priorities, and now it’s your turn.  No matter what you decide, you will never stop being one or the other.  No matter what, you will always belong to ethnic and national cultures.  But it’s up to you to decide which part of you will come to consider more defining than the other.” I looked more confused than upset when I arrived home.  He knew I needed time alone to process things, so he kissed me and left.

During hide and seek, I discovered a window to a parallel world.  That of maturity, decisions, and realizations.  My cousin never knew, but I secretly thanked her for that, but that was some days later when I had made up my mind.  I also thank my grandpa, who easily helped, encouraged, and enabled me. I realize that we cannot change who we are and where we come from.  Still, we can always embrace the decision of what we prioritize.  

As my grandpa likes to say, after all, we are all so much alike. 

Our new neighbour has an intrinsic aptitude for teaching. Since arriving in Canada, Maria has taught my husband and me through intriguing conversations about her younger life in Moldova, European politics, history, and travel.

I had asked Maria if she were to pick something that her country is best known for, what would that be? Without having to ponder an answer, she responded, “Good food and outstanding hospitality.”

Her answer came with no surprise to me. Since meeting Maria and her spouse Nick, they have been generous with delicious homemade bread, European entrees and desserts that allow Dave and I to enjoy the authentic tastes of Moldova and Greece. Recently, Maria presented us with these lovely traditionally decorated Easter eggs that she had made with environmentally friendly ingredients. 

When I asked Maria for a memory in her younger life that significantly changed the course of her life direction, this is the story Maria told. 

Written by Maria.

Dreams… Are they illusions? Or a mere story our human brain tells itself or reflects a predetermined goal we try to achieve through our day-to-day actions? For a girl twelve years of age, I believed it primarily concerned where I saw myself in the future.

My birthday is a few weeks before the beginning of the new school year. Our parents, grandparents, and relatives spoil us with many presents, good wishes, and lots of love on our special day. Although I didn’t realize it at the time, I would receive an extraordinary gift on my twelfth birthday.

It had been years since my beloved great-grandmother died of old age. I was eight years old and remember that day well. I had cried for many nights wishing to see her again. Just once, even for a moment.

The night before my birthday, I was in the cellar with my grandmother and other relatives. I heard her first. There stood my great-grandmother. My wish was fulfilled! Confused, I said to my grandmother, who was standing beside me. “I know she is dead. How come she is here with us?” Before my grandma could answer, my great-grandmother spoke to me calmly, as she always did. “I have a secret to tell you, Maria. You are now turning twelve, and you should be careful. Your life will become more difficult!” I opened my mouth to ask, “I don’t understand. What do you mean, Bunica?” But instead of words, a yawn came out of my mouth. I had woken up and realized I was in my bedroom, not the cellar. I became more muddled as I thought about my great-grandmother’s strange message. I was sad that it was only a dream but was comforted that I had at least seen her face and heard her voice again. And that was the best birthday gift ever. The rest of the day passed uneventfully, and I eventually tucked the strange prophecy into the back of my mind.

The new school year finally started. I was happy to see my friends and classmates again. We exchanged stories from over the summer. I did not talk to anyone about my dream to study hard at school, learn new things and attend university. I wanted to use my studies to travel abroad and see the world. But that seemed too far from now. I often scolded myself, “one step at a time.”

With the onset of the autumn rains, I could see the first clouds taint some old friendships. They fell like shadows, trying to darken my teenage soul. I was determined not to allow this to happen. School was supposed to be fun, and I enjoyed learning. Weeks passed, and the shadows grew darker all around me. I realized I was lonelier than ever before at school. My classmates’ interests seem to have changed. Their love and respect for me had changed. I was not liked anymore. I was… envied. The teachers noticed my hard work, resulting in frequent accolades about my achievements in front of my classmates. It didn’t make my classmates work harder; instead, some started a gang against me. Regardless, my dreams were important. I remained focused and determined to succeed.

Then the violence started.

I could handle the solitude and my classmates’ envy, but not physical violence. When the day came that I was pushed by my bully, I decided that would be the end of this story. Yes, I cried… Thank God my teenage legs knew the way through the forest well because my teenage eyes could not stop crying. It was a route that I always took twice a day. Happy in the morning and tired in the afternoon but never crying. I don’t know why, but my legs changed without asking me that day. They took me to my grandma’s house instead. I am unsure why because I do not like to upset my grandma about my problems. Grandma’s house was a comforting place to be. I had to force back my tears. I could not let her know. I was sure…

But how can you hide from someone that knows you so well? Of course, she noticed, but she didn’t ask. She sensed problems and welcomed me with a warm tight hug. It was a silent hug that spoke volumes of words. She knew I was in trouble. My young heart exploded, tears flooded my eyes and words of sadness filled my mouth; they took control as if they didn’t belong to me. I couldn’t hold them back; they broke free between my tight lips and started flying in one direction… to my grandma’s heart. She listened and said nothing. She knew the pattern of the problem well before I finished my story. I was surprised at how shockingly calm she looked…. yet, it was catastrophic to me that I was being bullied. I still could not understand what she was thinking. Was she thinking? Or was she done thinking years ago when she had found the magic formula that solved problems of this kind? She bent towards me and kissed my sweaty forehead. It was then I realized the physical effort of crying. It was not just my soul that suffered; it was my body. My grandma’s lips slipped next to my ear. My absent mind was back in place.

“I’ll tell you a secret,” she said. I was ready to hear, but the words echoed in my head. A… secret? I remembered … it sounded similar to my dream some months ago. My great-grandmother’s words had become true! I thought I could have known better, but was I ready for the secret?

“Pray,” my grandma said. “Don’t pray for you but pray for your enemies. God knows better who they are. Pray for peace to come to their soul because this is what they are missing now. Therefore, they are after you. Pray, and it will all change. Trust me…”

I thought it didn’t sound scientific enough, but it seemed to have worked for my grandma. After all, she sounded so sure that I had to trust her. So, I prayed often. Before, I went to sleep at night and on my way to and from school. I was obsessed. I loved the peace it started bringing to my spirit, so I continued without forcing myself. Time passed. I was so focused on my dreams. Now more than ever before. I had no time to observe that things had started changing right before my eyes. The gang had broken up. Some of them had to move to another village far from ours. Some had simply lost interest in me as their actions I now found boring and harmless. Both secrets had come true, I realized. That day I decided to stay in the forest and enjoy the calmness of grass on a breezy day and the naughty birds chirping over my head. Almost ceremonially, I prayed my usual prayer for the last time. After all, it had worked its magic, and so had both secrets that had come true. That day I walked back to my grandma’s house full of joy. She didn’t ask, but she understood.

A few years older, now I sometimes wonder still about the purpose of dreams. One thing is for certain, I learned to love, fear, and mainly respect them so much that I cannot wait for my next one…

Ollie worked the first two years of his life as a breeding dog. During that time, he had not seen the outside of a cage. Captivity was especially traumatic for a Jack Russell breed because of their inherent high energy. His first puppy years were presumably to blame for Ollie’s incurable nervousness. Now ten years old, he was frightened of people. It would take time to gain his trust.  

During our first night together, Ollie was awake most of the night, pacing, panting with faint ‘under the breath’ whimpers. Getting him ready for a walk early the following day was challenging. It was 5:30 am, still dark and pre-cup of coffee. As I was about to put his harness on, he lifted his leg against a dresser. I squealed out a loud “Oh no! Wait, Ollie…thirty more seconds, and we can go outside!” Instead of acknowledging that he understood what this strange human-dognapper had just said, poor little Ollie started to shake. Mistake one. He doesn’t seem to like the word ‘no.’ 

He needed his coat on, but Ollie resisted our attempts to put anything on him. I was trying to do this quickly. I knew he needed to relieve himself and didn’t want to add to his growing anxiety. Ollie was likely sensing mine. Finally, Dave clipped his leash to his collar, and Ollie and I left in a hurry. I knew Ollie liked it outside. 

The backyard was dark. Envisioning the multiple baths due to a squirt from our resident skunk was motivation enough to leave the safety of our fenced-in backyard and go around one quick block—mistake two. 

A few houses down, Ollie wanted to use the full extension of his leash to go to the middle of a neighbour’s lawn. He pooped. Oh, dear! In my hurried leave to get out the door, I forgot poop bags. I made a mental note to go back and clean up the poop when it was light out. I would never find the plop pile in the dark anyway. We went around the corner and down the block, dodged a few neighbourhood skunks, and we were on the home stretch headed back to my house. Ollie did his business, and it was past time for coffee! 

With absolutely no warning, Ollie stopped abruptly. Clearly not interested in my coffee, he held his ground. “Come on, Ollie, let’s go home.” I gently tug on his leash, and Ollie backs out of his collar. There he stood, dog-naked of his tags, collars and anything that could identify him other than his fur. We both looked at each other stunned. Ollie realized his opportunity as I began to beg God, the universe, and any superior force who may be listening for this NOT to be happening. He bolted on a journey that would permanently etch my heart. I ran that scene in my head thousands of times. Why didn’t I lunge and grab him? If even, I only caught his tail. I didn’t want to scare him; I was still feeling bad for making him shake earlier. If I had known what would ensue, his feelings would have been my last concern—mistake three. 

When Ollie immediately realized that not only did he get his way but that he was free, he turned and trotted away. I tried to act like nothing was wrong and followed him. I didn’t want to scare him into a full-blown breakaway. He sensed me gaining on him, and his pace grew faster. So did mine. I ran at full speed in seconds, and Ollie headed toward Adelaide, a busy four-lane street. I had to change tactics and head him off before he crossed Adelaide. I stopped the chase and instead called his name. That made him run faster. Dear God, I couldn’t watch this. Dodging between cars, he crossed Adelaide and safely made it to the other side. I did the same. I followed him around that neighbourhood for a while; then, he turned to go back to where he had come. Oh please, NO, Ollie! Don’t try that again. The extreme anguish of his suicidal Adelaide Street ventures shortened my life with every crossing. 

I needed help and called my husband, Dave, who valiantly dropped everything and came out to help with the search. Over the phone, we coordinated to try and corner Ollie. Dave had a few sightings but lost him. We finally met on the Adelaide Street corner, trying to prevent Ollie from crossing again, and he popped out from nowhere just a few feet in front of us. Ollie crossed Adelaide for the third time, and Dave was not far behind him. 

It was my last sighting of Ollie. 

For hours, Dave and I drove and walked around searching for Ollie. 

About mid-morning, the reality was setting in. What if we couldn’t find Ollie? 

I called my son, who is a police officer. He suggested I post Ollie’s disappearance and photo on the K9 Ground search, a volunteer organization that helps find missing dogs. My daughter-in-law called the police and reported it. The police came out to search, and the mail carriers were on the lookout. We asked many people in the neighbourhoods out walking if they had seen a little white dog. Some took down our telephone numbers. There were a few sightings that we chased down during the day, but by the time I got there, he was gone. But the sightings from others gave me some hope. 

At least Ollie was still alive.

I was famished. The noon-hour fast approaching prompted Dave to ask me what I would like to eat. I did not have the mental capacity to answer. All I wanted was that little dog out there in the dangerous world to return. I couldn’t make decisions; I couldn’t focus on anything other than getting Ollie back. I subconsciously noticed Dave’s disappearance when he came back with lunch. 

The only thing more devastating than losing your best friend is losing someone else’s.

It was time to call my friend, who had recommended my dog sitting services. I had to tell him what had happened. “It’s Ollie,” I said with every ounce of energy. Then a brief silence while I decided how to start. I told Bert the story, and he dropped what he was doing and came out to join the search. 

For much of the day, I debated what point I should call Shelley, Ollie’s beloved human. I was hoping to have Ollie back when I told her. I didn’t want to ruin her four-day vacation, but I also didn’t want her to find out that Ollie was missing over social media. There were over 450 shares of Ollie’s disappearance posting. 

I received the dreaded text from Shelley about dinner time. I knew it would come; she would want an update on how Ollie was doing. At least I could stop agonizing over the decision to call her. 

I technically lost her darling little Ollie on the first day of the job. 

Shelley had trouble sleeping the night before. She was, by nature, a ‘worrier,’ but this was a different level of anxiety. It was the first night Ollie had been away from home since she rescued him from his terrible situation eight years ago. 

Shelley warned me about Ollie’s nervous temperament. She warned me that he could back out of his harness. Noted. 

The last thing I said to Shelley as she passed her little dog to my care was, don’t worry and have fun. Ollie will be safe. 

It was the worst phone call of my life. I don’t remember much from that call. There was some swearing…. understandably, she was distressed, possibly angry, and worried. We were both crying. 

After hanging up, I mindlessly turned the ignition to the truck…where to now? Where would Ollie be? I decided to try the soccer fields and dog park. A long shot, but perhaps the smell of other dogs would attract Ollie there. 

As I contemplated where I might go if I was a little dog in this vast area, I received a call from the police. Officer Kathy, who had been out looking for Ollie, had been monitoring Facebook and told me there was a post of a sighting three seconds old. She asked if I could get over to the location because she was too far away. My heart exploded! Someone had Ollie in their backyard! He could escape, but he wasn’t aware for the moment that he could.  

When I arrived, a few neighbours were waiting for me. And there was Ollie! He did look like he was trapped. I jumped the fence, took off my coat, and threw it over Ollie, so he would have more difficulty running past me if he tried. I was surprised at the transformation of this cute little dog. He snarled and growled at me, then bit me three times. 

I hung on tight. I didn’t want Ollie to get away, in part to comfort him. He must have been terrified and exhausted. And in part because of the absolute, indescribable joy of having Ollie back. When Dave arrived a few moments later, I had Ollie in my arms ending the twelve-hour search and at least four crossings (that I am aware of) of the four-lane Adelaide Street traffic. 

We put Ollie in the car, and I hugged my neighbour, a perfect stranger. 

There were more tears than my first call to her. “Shelley, we found him. He is safe. He is here with me now.” 

My second call was to my friend, who had been out searching for much of the afternoon. Bert had gotten lost in the woods in his efforts to stay clear of the five deer he saw, who may have had little calves close.  

That night, I stared at Ollie Dollie, who peacefully slept in my bed after his tremendously long day, probably dreaming about his great adventure. I made a mental note to abolish all house policies. Ollie rules. I will not breathe the word ‘no’ to him. 

Writing this story took me a while until I could re-live that day with some reduced anguish. It was one of the most frightening days I have ever experienced. But getting Ollie back left me with the most intense, indescribable feeling of gratitude. 

Something also changed in Ollie. After a long sleep, he seemed to be more comfortable with me. Over the next three days, we had many less dangerous adventures, long walks and lots of doggie cuddles. 

Dear Everyone, 

It was the worst day, and thanks to you all and your kindness, it was the best day. 

To my Dave, who dropped his entire busy agenda for the day to help find Ollie, who did everything possible to support me while my world stopped. In all his positivity, he commented the following day. “It was an experience….it was a new page, but I didn’t get to do all the colouring on it.”

To our dear friend Bert who recommended my dog sitting services to Shelley a year earlier and also dropped everything to join the search.

To the London Police, especially Kathy, who helped with the ground search, the K9 Ground Search and the North London Neighbourhood Facebook groups, and everyone who shared the posts and reported sightings. There were over 450 shares in one day! 

To my son, my daughter-in-law, and her parents for their help.

To my sister-in-law, who was awoken much before her regular wake-up time by her brother to be conscripted to join the search. 

To the post office mail carriers, all the passers-by who took my phone number in case they saw Ollie.

And to the couple who contained Ollie until I arrived.

To everyone that helped find Ollie, a thousand thank yous. 

Finally, to Shelley and Ollie… the most wonderful thing to come out of this experience is I have two new friends. Thank you for your forgiveness! 

The next day… I bought Ollie an additional harness. 

Ollie- “I feel the new doggie sitter is being excessive…it was one little adventure!“

Thank you Unsplash for the photo by Marc Newberry

During a wind storm a few weeks ago, we had a new recycling box land on our driveway. I am happy to return the box to the owner, but there are no identification markings. 

As I brought our newly acquired and third recycling box to the curb, I looked up and down the street to see that everyone else had one or two boxes. We have two families in this house, which could be partly the reason, but for the past few years, I have been trying to buy less plastic. How is it that I still have all of this recycling? 

In January 2016, I made it my mission to eliminate plastic from my household. Clearly, by the three recycling boxes, I am not quite there yet. But I am reminded of an incident at a grocery store when I first embarked on my mission. 

Flashback: November 2017

This plastic-less challenge sent me searching for avocado oil that is not sold in a plastic bottle. 

Arriving at the fourth store that day, I didn’t bring my reusable shopping bag.  My negative mood assumed I would come out empty-handed because of my lack of success at the last three stores.  Upon entering the market, the succulent smell of freshly baked bread drew me to the bakery racks at the back of the store.  There were so many to choose from.  I picked three different loaves.  Next to the bread were the pies…mercy me!  My mood was improving! Apple cinnamon pie, and it’s still warm!  Had to have one!  And, of course, apple pie must have vanilla ice cream to go with it.  

I need a basket.  

On my way to get a basket, I became distracted by the giant grapes… on sale!  And, oh, look!  Don’t those apples look delicious?  I forgot; I needed bananas too.  

There were no more baskets.  Already overloaded, I walked hunched over toward the cashier, praying for a short line.  After unloading my arms, I see coffee.  I don’t have to have it, but it is delicious and a lovely addition to the upcoming apple pie treat. 

The cashier gave me a peculiar look when I declined her offer to pack my groceries in plastic bags.  Determined, I think, I brought the groceries this far; I can get them to the car without the plastic bag.  It is just a tiny bit of a walk.  After I pay my bill, I tie my coat into a pouch and stuff it and my pockets with groceries.  Balancing the remainder of the groceries in my arms, I silently plead that I do not drop anything.  I semi-consciously hear an old girl behind inline snickering at me.  She said quite sniffy and loud, “Anything to save a nickel!” (the store charged five cents per plastic bag) My mind was too busy with the balancing act and the subsequent journey to the car.  I smiled and thought, yeah, okay…hahaha, hilarious lady! 

My trip en route to my car didn’t go as planned.  I could see the fruit shifting downward with every step I took.  Quickening my pace to get to the car before gravity robbed me of my grapes that were on sale only worsened the inevitable.  The grapes jumped out of my arms and rolled and bounced away in several directions.  As I bent over to try and salvage the bulk of them, the knots to my pouch loosened.  I lose three apples, two of which roll under a car.  I decided against chasing my fallen fruit around the parking lot to focus on getting to my car to unload my arms.  The glass bottle of avocado oil started to slide.  Horrified at the visions of a broken glass mess I might face, I fretted about how to free up one hand to unlock the car door.  

At that moment, I catch up with my thoughts of the lady behind me in line.  It suddenly occurs to me, HEY…. WAIT A MINUTE, LADY!  This has nothing to do with saving a nickel!  This is entirely to do with the fact that I don’t want the nasty, chemical cootie plastic bags.  Never again do I want to see images of animals and marine life who suffered torturous deaths because they get entangled and choked on our garbage. 

It has everything to do with the fact that plastic does not go away.   Although we have been recycling for 30+ years, and certainly a good effort, it is not working; the chemical residue from plastic seeps into our water, food and environment….(BPA-free plastic still contains other chemicals not safe for consumption).  I don’t want to ingest cancerous chemical microparticles of anything that does not biodegrade.  

A wise and respected lady once told me that our garbage would kill us long before smog, superbugs, nuclear war, artificial intelligence, select presidents, or any other threats to our planet. 

It has to do with not wanting to spend my money on products smothered in plastic.  For millions of years, we survived without plastic-wrapped bananas, cucumbers and prepared meals. 

Finally, I do not want the extra work of disposing of plastics. I have enough work to do….like go find my apples! 

If you are interested in plastic-free shopping in London, Ontario, I highly recommend ReimagineCo. They provide plastic-free, organic, vegan and online shopping. (Also dynamite in-house made chocolate chip cookies) 

A great book that offers many ideas on plastic-less living is called “Living without Plastic,” written by Bridgette Allen and Christine Wong. It is available on Amazon.ca or Indigo.

And while I am on the plastic-free topic…Go Go Go Walmart! https://www.walmartcanada.ca/newsroom/2022/04/21/walmart-canada-says-goodbye-to-single-use-plastic-bags