Three Things from Edmonton podcast -- Episode 128: noses, life sentence, leftovers


Here are three things that left behind tracks of happiness and gratitude last week as summer settled into Edmonton for its day in the sun.

Three Things podcast, episode 128:
 
                           

1. Noses

Before I realized that I hadn’t broken my nose or knocked my teeth out, I knew I had to get to safety—fast. I’d been on my skateboard, practising gliding off the city sidewalk onto the asphalt street in front of our house. There is no fancy name for this move. It’s not a fancy move. It’s what any eight-year-old skateboarder can do.  And I did do it, until, that last time, I hit a pebble in the gutter. It was enough to stop my right front wheel dead. I flew forward. In a blink, the front street transformed from a calm pool of blacktop into an angry wave crashing at me.  With a smack! I landed face first on the road. My right palm and left forearm did their best to cushion the impact, but they got there late, picking up a road rash citation for participation. My nose took the blow. 



It was an evolutionary moment. I was lying there for the pickings, leaking blood from both nostrils. I could have reasoned that the mini-van driver who slowed down as he passed did so only to make sure I was okay, but there was no time for reason. It was all instinct.  I felt like I was being stalked by the vehicle. I picked myself up, grabbed my skateboard and ran to the house as blood dots blossomed on the board deck.  Shelagh patched me up. We rented a movie to take my mind off my face.



It turns out, there’s a lot of nose work in The Sting. Paul Newman’s Henry Gondorff uses a flick of the finger off his nose as a gesture to recruit his team of confidence men and to keep them in the know. Crooked cop Lt. Snyder bangs Joe Erie’s nose into the table after an impertinent remark, even though, it’s his nose, Snyder’s, that has no sniff of what’s going on. And, of course, in the fourth race at Narragansett, Blue Note wins by a nose. Suddenly, noses were everywhere. In The Sting, they’re a device to remind us of how hard it can be to see what’s in front of our faces, and how easy it is to fall as a mark. In my stinging wipeout, my nose took a mark as a reminder of how easy and hard falling on the front of my face is. 



2. Life sentence
(I collect sentences in this ongoing series.)

The elm trees along the north side of 91 Avenue in our neighbourhood are public giants planted by somebody forgotten in the march of time. Wouldn’t it be nice if somehow in the searchability of all things we could unearth the names of the crew that decades ago planned those trees, delivered them to the boulevard, worked the shovels, staked them and pruned them? Precisely unlike the way you go to a municipal facility, a pool or a park or a sports field, and see the plaque with the engraved names of the Mayor and all the politicians and top bureaucrats in office at the time the thing was built. Nice souvenir for fancy folks, those plaques, but the actual work was done by the people planting rebar, pouring concrete and laying brick. If the credits in a movie can go on and on, if we can learn who the Dolly Grip and Child Wrangler were in a film, why not the names of the people who made the stuff for the scenes of everyday life in the neighbourhood? 



What got me thinking along these lines was a Facebook post from my friend Heather the doc at the University of Alberta on the occasion of the 2023  Killam Awards. The Killams are Canada’s Nobel Prizes, she explained. They go to Canadian scholars whose research in the humanities, social and natural sciences, health and engineering have made significant marks in our lives. It was a masterful post from Heather, who framed the achievements of this year’s crop of winners as a reason to feel deep pride in Canada. She linked to a CBC Ideas podcast where the stories of the winners were told. I’ve put her entire post in the Three Things podcast show notes, but this was my favourite sentence in Dr. Young-Leslie’s post: 

“I know my university colleagues will enjoy this episode, but I wish my non-university friends would also listen—to hear what their (and our parents’ and grandparents’) past tax dollars and political choices have enabled.”



Her words helped me see how gifts bud and bloom over time longer than the current news cycle and how we might grow together by remembering the presents of the long-gone givers. 

3. Leftovers

“Wow, that smells good!” 

That was the instant verdict from a colleague at work as I took my lunch of re-heated turkey meatballs and rice out of the microwave and back to my desk, leaving a trail of the aroma of home. I love leftovers. I love the whole idea of leftovers. They mean there was more than was needed. There was a surplus that wasn’t wasted. They mean the boys are out living on their own. Leftovers are memories of yesterday’s meal—the sight of it being made in the kitchen, the conversation that happened at the table—memories of yesterday’s meal that, even better, you can eat. I love the utilitarian packaging that leftovers are stored and transported in. I love how there’s not as much fuss on Day 2, how leftovers can be squished and dented and crowded together. They know where they’re from. No need to put on a show. I love how fast food has trouble tasting like leftovers the next day. I love how the next day, with all its uncertainty, starts to take reliable shape the day before as set-aside leftovers.



Thanks for being out there, friends. 🇨🇦


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