Three Things from Edmonton podcast - Episode 95: fables, encounters, nothings

To keep the feeble noticing equipment from completely seizing up, I try each week to think about three things that left behind tracks of happiness or gratitude. The snow is good for tracks. Episode 95: 

                   

1. Fables 

I was lyin’ on the living room couch in, if not quite, pain, then, at least, unease, as Shelagh, bent over over under the lamp, sterilized needle in hand, face set in determination, pricked the sole of my right foot. For days, I had limped around with a sliver in the ball of my foot. I had to modify my walk down the stairs to footfall on the heel. Pedalling was a pain. Shelagh is a sliversmith, though. And, after a minute of “come on, alreadys,” she got it. 

This sliver that had come close to incapacitating me, was, as I looked at it, thinner than the 1/8th inch notch on a tape measure. Undone by so tiny an intruder, I felt slightly mortified. But Shelagh made the reasonable point that log, splinter or sliver, the truth was that it didn’t belong in my body, and that’s why it hurt. 

It was a thorn, after all, that felled the mighty lion in the old fable. The slave Androcles happened upon the moaning beast in the forest, removed the thorn from its paw and bandaged up the wound. The lion befriended Androcles, hunted for him and brought him food. Years later, now separated, their fortunes changed. Androcles was led into an arena where the lion, intentionally starved for three days, was expected to devour the slave to satisfy the crowd. (That was how thumbs-up emojis from the emperor’s followers happened back then.) 

We are told the lion rushed at Androcles, but then stopped when he recognized his old friend. In that instant, he knew Androcles again. He saw himself, too. The lion recalled how he had once been transformed by Androcles’ kindness. The lion’s gratitude was stronger than the manufactured hunger he had been made to feel. The emperor took notice. He freed the slave and returned the lion to the forest. Thank you, Aesop. Thank you, Shelagh.

2. Encounters 

 #34 was my number from the take-a-number ticket dispenser at the Italian Centre downtown. I have a tic with numbers. They automatically summon the names of athletes who wore them. Fernando Pisani, #34 for the Oilers…that overtime goal…top corner…Game 5…Stanley Cup final…2006. “Number 34,” the clerk called, bringing me back to life. “What would you like today?”  My reply, “just some cheese,” led to a short master class in the virtues of Gruyere Cave-Aged Kaltbach. 

Later, in the produce section, a man wearing a McDavid #97 sweater inspected the pears. The Oilers had played and lost that afternoon. I asked him how the game went. Everything about it was bad, goaltending, offence, worst game in a long time, he said, bad like it used to be—but, it’s still early in the season. Hockey teams have to ripen, too, I said. He laughed.

Then, at the checkout, we loaded our haul onto the conveyor belt—cheese, an apple pie, vanilla ice cream, a frozen rabbit, crusty buns, tomato paste, pappardelle, potatoes, four pear, fresh thyme. 

"Riding your bike?" came a familiar voice from the next checkout. It was Bruce from the Emperors old-timers hockey team I used to skate with at Santa Rosa Arena. #2? #3? I couldn’t remember his number. We caught up, confirmed we had both hung up the blades, talked about grandparenthood, took a pic together, shook hands as old hockey players in line do. I left the store feeling energized by the encounters in speech as abundant as the stock on the shelves at the Italian Centre downtown, or, as some still call it, Spinelli’s.

But what was Bruce’s number? That bugged me, got under my skin. I messaged my friend Lesley, who’s married to our team captain, Mitch, #13, from those glory days. Mitch texted back: “Bruce Dickson #3. He was on our World Masters Games team. We also had Bruce’s buddy Gregg Gerdes (#4) playing defense, along with Rick Melnychuk (#17) and Doug Woodland (#22).” I smiled when I read the text. For Mitch, his old teammates aren’t just names. We’re numbers. 

3. Nothings 

For the most part, this weekly list favours the little things that registered or made a mark on me—little things that actually happened. I got a sliver removed, Aesop dropped by. Shelagh and I stopped at the Italian Centre, we heard the voice of the smooth-skating #3. But things that didn’t happen last week were good, too.

On the ledge between our dining room and kitchen sits a potted, blooming cactus from Zocalo. Despite feeling 10 times a day the impulse to touch its tiny thorns for no reason, I didn’t. I placed a glass of water on the table next to my side of the bed far enough away that an errant pillow in the night wouldn’t tip it over. That’s how spilled water exactly didn’t happen. I fumbled the salt bowl as I put it back onto the lower shelf of the kitchen cupboard, and somehow deftly caught it before what didn’t happen happened, which was the bowl didn’t fall and didn’t shatter on the countertop. I drove downtown in red-eyed-inchworm traffic, and resolved to not get frustrated, which I did…n’t—didn’t get frustrated, I mean. Last week, I didn’t misplace my wallet. Yes, I left the house keys in the front door overnight, but they and everything in the house was still there in the morning.  I didn’t watch a second of the Excited States midterm election night horse-race coverage on CNN, even though I admire John King on the magic wall. 

If I pick holes in myself for the wrong things that did happen—the bad decisions I make, the shortcuts I take, the things I forget—I will try to give equal coverage to the stuff that, because of a smidgen of foresight or a stroke of luck or the help of others, didn’t. 

Thanks for being out there, friends.

And here's Pisani's goal as we heard Bob Cole see it: