Snapshots

On my daily walks I find it comforting to move through the world as part of that demimonde of people who are free for some reason at 10 a.m. on a Thursday.  These people are walking dogs, drinking coffee outside coffee shops, chatting on park benches with friends, power-walking (while no doubt listening to NPR podcasts on their headphones), playing with their children in playgrounds, or just sitting.  I only recently started taking walks after Buster’s frisbee time at the park, which happens after breakfast.  He’s usually a good walker once he’s had his yah-yahs out and I love walking around the old neighbourhood at that time of day.  

 It frequently occurs to me that I’m seeing a snapshot of a moment in these people’s lives.  Tomorrow perhaps some of them will have succumbed to a heart attack or an accident, they may receive horrible news about a loved one later on the same day, or great news about a job or a baby coming, but most definitely they will be older tomorrow, and next year, and in twenty years they’ll be having thoughts like mine.  

When I was younger I never thought like that; if I took notice of a young person, it wouldn’t have occurred to me that she was on a trajectory to become old (as I was); instead I would just admire her fresh-faced beauty, or her cool outfit.  Or, if I noticed an older person, I thought of them in that moment, perhaps rather sad and pitiable, but forgetting that this person has lived, has passed through her youth and middle-age, has had her moments of work, play and energy, and yes, has earned all her scars and sore knees, and some wisdom that at twenty she could never have had. That woman had echos of her young self inside her if I had looked closely.  

I’ve lived most of my life in NDG, in western Montreal, and presently I live about ten minutes walk from the home I grew up in on West Hill ave. Often on my daily walks with Buster I find myself in that area. There is a little street, Godfrey, that only extends four blocks, but happens to pass very close to my old house;  and my elementary school was there, at the corner of Kensington and Godfrey.  As I walk by the house where, in 1972, my best friend moved in on Godfrey, I notice a car that must belong to a hoarder. It’s absolutely packed to the roof with junk.  It’s an odd note in this lovely corner, but I shrug, walk on and pause in a delightful little park on Godfrey, just beyond the school (now renovated into condos), where the city has set up Adirondack chairs and benches for people to congregate.  In nice weather there are always people chatting, or just relaxing, sometimes there’s a group practicing Tai Chi, in this very small park.  This is where I sit sometimes with Buster, just looking around and wondering what these people do in life that gives them the freedom to hang out there during work hours.  Many are retired, like me, but what about the others? Working from home, and out for a break maybe.  Who knows? And so many dogs!  Always dogs.

It’s lovely to wander through the area, feeling nostalgic but also part of this present day community, almost like I’m part of a club; a club that doesn’t know it exists and where the members don’t know each other, but is somehow friendly and welcoming.