Many say that the first step to fighting the immeasurable nastiness with which a despicable few American politicians, cronies and their happy-to-watch minions are carpet bombing the many, is to start local. Neighbour to neighbour. That makes sense to me. And it feels doable. Of course, I live in downtown Toronto where my assumption of a certain like-mindedness seems safe.
In a weird way, shovelling out nine times over the weekend was a “Canadian” gift and just what I needed. Exertion as distraction. A safety strategy, for sure – two heavy inches at a time rather than two feet that could leave me on my back for a week (junior-senior that I now am). The plan to not let things get too bad before taking action, feels metaphorical.
Problem is, I’m not sure what the get-out-there-and-do-something-about-the-state-of-the-world equivalent to shovelling two inches at a time might be. Checking labels at the supermarket? Reposting memes? Flying the flag I’m ready to re-embrace? Writing my little heart out? And will it in any way mitigate the heavy lifting ahead – should we choose to lift?
Strangely, I was alone on my street every time I went out to shovel the sidewalk. No one to share a look-at-us-digging-out-again smile, a we-are-in-this-together glance. Those encounters always lift my spirits. At least the odd trudging pedestrian and dog get 16 feet of respite when they pass by.
My house, like many downtown, backs onto a lane that does not get cleared. And no, everyone can’t just throw $20 bucks into a winter plowing fund. That would leave every garage and parking spot barricaded in. There’s almost nowhere for the snow to go. The odd car makes it out leaving two deep ruts as the only escape route. It reminds me of that silly ride on Centre Island where a bunch of old-timey looking cars crawl along on two metal grooves and hard as you pull on that steering wheel (an illusion of control), you only bang against them, but never get out.
It occurs to me that if all of us who back onto that lane came out at the same time with our shovels, ice picks and varied outfits – the wackier the better – I go with exceedingly high-waisted red snow pants, turquoise Sorels and a two-tone blue wool hat – that we could tackle that situation lickity split, free those who needed to be freed from the winter prison, have fun doing it and maybe even make a friend or two. People unable to shovel could direct the rest of us from folding chairs set up in the snow. There could even be hot toddies.
It would require organization. Not really my strength, and I know maybe four neighbours on my street, never mind the next street over that shares the lane, which is shameful given how many decades I’ve lived here (I only seem like an extrovert). But, I do love to shovel. Anyway, a letter in each mailbox would do the trick. I’d be happy to deliver an invitation to all of us who share Cyril Lane to join a mail list and heed the call when it came. Even if only 35% join in, it would do the trick.
Then yesterday after two days of more shovelling than I remember ever doing, this happened. My son called from outside to say he couldn’t get out of the carport. Too low to the ground, his car was getting stuck on the now hard icy part between the ruts. He needed to head back to Ottawa early today. So he, his girlfriend, and I spent two hours digging out half the lane by ourselves, and moving the car, bit by bit, until we reached the end and cheered. We saw only two people. Good luck, they called and waved cheerily.
Of course, human nature is such that as soon as the crisis has melted, or worse, if it doesn’t affect me, my SUV has no problem getting out, I’ll just stay put for the couple of days, we are unlikely to sign up and commit to a longer-term solution. Imagine when something far worse than a few days of snow happens and we have our handy list. We can reach out to our fix-it gang with one click. (Yes, I realize that the internet going down might be part of that problem which makes clicking moot, but stick with me here.)
It’s tough to find solutions to a dire situation that can’t even be called multi-pronged, because that would mean we could name all the prongs. Which we can’t. In fact we need to realize that our human need to label is a strategy used by the “other side” to divide and distract us. Every time we try, new ones pop up. If only it were just snow. But there’s hail (made out of poo), vermin, boils, blood, frogs, darkness. Sound familiar?
A list of willing neighbours is a fine start. I love the idea of collective distraction that doubles as action. So much more productive than my solo efforts that leave only 16 feet cleared. Do I trust every neighbour? Of course not, but I’m inclined to believe, maybe foolishly, that once we come together to dig each other out, it will be harder for someone who shared their ice pick to kill me with it.
So bring on the fight and let there be silly outfits.
Love your writing! And this piece in particular :-)