It Takes a Community....

As I think about what to write for this blog, which, if it follows any chronological order at all, will be about Tercero's arrival into our little family, I find my mind wandering down parallel paths--a wayward tourist who refuses to follow the tour guide impatient of getting on with the day's agenda.

Last week, at my book club's regular gathering, we were discussing Ami McKay's fine novel The Birth House. As we talked about the women in the book and their support of one another's child rearing and other gazillion jobs that women have traditionally done, the subject of our own years as young mothers came up.

I briefly recounted being in a close and supportive community of young (and some not-so-young) parents. The book club members commented that I was fortunate to have been nurtured this way. I've had other conversations with people that indicate such an experience was not universal. Many folks did not have a community watching their backs as they struggled with life, kids, spouses, work, home, etc.

I've been thinking a lot about this--writing the blog has let loose those misty (and sometimes pesky) water-coloured memories, after all. But last week's conversation underscored a fundamental truth for me--what kept me sane all through the "tired years" (as my friend Claire calls them--you know the ones--all those days of running after kids, cleaning up, cooking meals, doing dishes--most days you didn't even get your face washed until supper time) was community.

Word freak that I am, I check with the dictionary to see what "community" really means and find that the word's Latin root is communitas, which is made up of cum (with, together) and munus (gift). Those Latins--always ready to provide roots for the everyday terms we toss around with such abandon. I am struck by the notion that "gift" inhabits the word "community." And "community" has become one of those words that is used a lot these days. Everyone is part of some kind of community, and there are all sorts available: gay-and-lesbian community, immigrant community, environmental community, arts community, seniors community--take your pick. I wonder if there is a folks-who-don't-want-to-be-part-of-a-community community out there somewhere. Likely so.

The ubiquitousness of the term leads me to believe that being part of a community is a very human thing. I think we all yearn to be part of something bigger--just remember Bogie's farewell "hill of beans" speech to Bergman in Casablanca. Many of us belong to several communities, all at once. To be human is, in some way, to be a joiner. What allowed our prehistoric ancestors to survive, according to the paleontologists, was their ability to cooperate, to, as The Beatles commanded, "Come together, right now!" (I never got what the "over me" was all about, but then I never understood the lyrics to "I am the Walrus" either).

We didn't have the sharpest teeth, the fastest legs, the strongest arms, the quickest time as we ran through the jungle (hmmm, first the Beatles and now Fogerty--interesting what pops up...). What humans did have was the ability to cooperate, which Richard Leakey says "must be a very basic motivation in human nature"(Leakey & Lewin, People of the Lake, p.121). I try to imagine those cave-days--"Okay you guys--Oog and Blorp will kill the mastadon, Trull will skin it, Kraab will drag it home--remember, it's the BIGGEST mastadon we ever saw! Everyone got it?"

But back to the gift of community--the munus, as the Latins say. The community of families we were part of back in Herbert was most definitely a gift. Many things distinguished this little community of young parents with oodles of kids living in fixer-uppers and driving balky cars. The cars were mostly old and European--one of several idiosyncrasies that distinguished us. Other peculiarities were energy-efficient wood stoves (this resulted in a spectacular roof-ballet involving Rollie on a cold winter day as he fandango'd two icy stories up trying to quell neighbour Bob's chimney fire), the men wearing sneakers with suits to weddings, a passion for playing RISK on weekend evenings (along with the requisite after-game play-by-play--"Oh why, oh why did I go for Asia SO SOON?"), and an open door/bottomless coffee pot policy when it came to visiting.

We lived within a seven minute walk of one another (ten if you ambled or were shoving an umbrella stroller along the uneven pavement). No one locked doors or phoned ahead. You just grabbed the kids (when they were little) or left a note (when they could read) and headed over. There was usually a line of strollers at the back door and a gaggle of kids in the yard getting dirty (summer) or in the house getting IT dirty (winter). The number of kids grew--they evolved into a pack intent on monkey tricks--a pack that Natalie dubbed "The Little Moron Club" after one of their more harebrained adventures. As the kids grew older, their range increased--they moved from the house and yard onto the streets, the school-ground, the railroad embankment, the fields, the creek.

Primero refers to his Herbert upbringing as his "Tom Sawyer childhood." He and his friends had the luxury, so elusive today, of wandering in the world. The Little Moron Club (membership ever-shifting) built forts, tree-houses, encampments. They played with frogs, newts, tadpoles. They hunted gophers, rabbits and stalked badgers. They ate dirt, bugs and carrots with sand still on them. They fell out of trees, off their bikes, into fresh pavement. Their legs in summer were criss-crossed with the scrapes, scratches and bruises of activity. They engaged in annual, epic green tomato fights (this was encouraged by Rollie, who hucked more green tomatoes than any of the kids--Dee was not happy--she'd been saving them for chutney).

What else distinguished our little community? There were some very strong personalities among its members, as well as a generous supply of eccentricities. Perhaps this is what made it so vital and so much fun. We also shared an understanding of being citizens of a rapidly shrinking globe. We may have been living in the middle of the prairie, but we had a keen sense of participating in a world community gradually waking up to its responsibilities and vast potential. We shared a belief that there was more to the world than met the eyes--that we inhabited a spiritual dimension as well as a physical one, and that we needed to nurture that dimension to be fully alive.

Most of all, I believe, we loved one another--not just despite our different personalities and backgrounds, but because of them. I believe we created, for a time, a web of relationships that cradled all of us in its silky, steel-strong filaments. I use the word "web" deliberately, for it is the master metaphor of all things text and textile--a web is made of the ties-that-bind, literally.

Joe and Allie still live in Herbert, but the rest of us, like dandelion fluff, have scattered with the wind. We're all over the place--all over Saskatchewan, all over the country. Most of us are still married to the same guy. In an age where the divorce rage is fifty percent, this seems remarkable. I'm not sure what it points to--perhaps the thought of jettisoning decades of training is too wearying to contemplate. After all, how many years did it take to get the toilet seat left down? Do you really want to spend more time teaching someone the proper answer to "Do these jeans make my butt look big?" And you are unlikely to find a male who will respond with something when you ask "What are you thinking?" It's been my experience that men's thought balloons are often empty.

So we stay in touch. Our kids attend each other's weddings. Facebook abounds with buddies sharing the latest news. The web filaments may be stretched across time and space, but they retain a tenacious strength. As we morph into grandparents, we hope this new generation of parents and children finds its own home-web, wherever that may be.

Back again to munus--to the gift of community. My mind circles this notion like a retriever who's lost the scent--is it human nature to look back with longing on those years? I remember (hmmm, will have to check how many times this phrase crops up in this blog) our neighbours in Herbert, Barb and Eldon, who lived across the street from us. Barb and Eldon were in their forties at the time--they'd raised five kids, a couple of whom we used as babysitters and all of whom became our friends. Barb had the real-life equivalent of a Ph.D. in practical parenting--there was little she didn't know. Possessed of a quirky sense of humour, she would minister to us younger moms with whimsy and wisdom and lots of strong coffee. "Now you girls remember," she'd say, "enjoy these years when your kids are young--little kids, little problems. You'll look back on these years with great fondness, so cherish them as they come."

We would look at each other in horror, consumed as we were by poopy diapers, pukey kids, messy houses (usually in various states of re-construction), empty bank accounts, overgrown yards, and think "It gets WORSE?"

Barb was right. And I'm thankful that I get to tell her so regularly, as she and Eldon live just up-island from us (I enjoy using the term "up island"--it sounds so Vancouver-Island-Native-speak), bless their great hearts. It's almost like having them across the street, only without the blizzards (for which I am endlessly thankful). I do look back at those years with fondness, and realize that I cherished them anyway, even if I didn't realize it at the time, what which being so busy trying to survive them. It's a great wonder how humans can do more than one thing at a time.

I cherish them still--along with the people who made them so memorable. My memory is full of the most amazing images (some of which Jack has managed to scan into his digital album, although at a snail's pace as he has not yet moved through the entire process of purchasing the doo-dad that will speed this up).

I remember whoever came home with a new baby (this happened a LOT for a while) had the first visit--along came the casserole and the toddlers checking out the new arrival. They would peer at the wrapped package and then go off to play, satisfied that the interloper would not interfere with the doings of The Little Moron Club for a while yet.

I remember Rollie dancing on neighbour Bob's roof, trying to put out the chimney fire as Duane and Jack raced over with their fire-extinguishers. Thankfully Rollie lived, as did the house. The stove was a bit of a mess, however.

I remember Natalie phoning us to come quick! We raced over to find her in hysterics as she scrubbed away the signs of yet another infamous poop party--Twins Evan and Luke liked to paint the walls with their poo, which wound up everywhere--on the walls, on the cribs, even little balls of it in their hair. If one twin didn't have any in his diaper, the other would scoop some out and toss it over. Laughing so hard she cried, Natalie said she'd rather howl than bawl.

I remember Joe, famously unable to handle the sight of blood, freaking out when Cameron stepped on the rake. Allie called Jack over to see if Cameron needed to go to the hospital, as Joe, running in circles and flapping his arms like a chicken, was all but useless.

I remember Dee dispensing level-headedness along with her coffee--Dee, our safe port in emotional storms.

I remember, me--just like all those Quebeckers on their license plates--so much more evocative than "Land of Living Skies" (the less-than-stellar Saskatchewan motto whatever it means--I've always thought "It's a Dry Cold" much more apt). As I remember, I am thankful for the gift that was my community of brothers and sisters who were moms and dads, just like us. Just learning about life, like we were. Trying to do a good job of raising kids without a manual, just like we were. We were each other's sounding boards, therapists, nannies, recreational coordinators, EMT's, caterers, wet-nurses (at times), mechanics, friends, allies, compatriots, amigos, etc. We shared our labour, our lives and, most of all, our love. Sometimes we got irritated with one another, with all those eccentric, strong personalities, but somehow we blundered through--it seemed to take more energy being pissed off at someone than to shrug it off. What with the ever-burgeoning Little Moron Club to ride herd on, we had no extra energy anyway.

If wishes were fishes, we'd swim all day long. But wishes we do have, for a'that (as Mr. Robbie Burns might say). And I wish, for all new moms and dads out there, many of whom are former members of The Little Moron Club, the same kind of safety-web we had when we were learning to be parents while still trying to keep the ability to play. Because we did play, and had a lot of fun. I remember (there it is again!) backyard wiener roasts, camping trips, cross-country-ski junkets, RISK tournaments, Hallowe'en parties (some memorable costumes--Duane's dirty old man fondling Natalie's prim prom-queen comes to mind--maybe Jack has a slide?), pot-luck dinners (so many people sometimes that the plates were passed, hand to hand, like pails in a bucket-brigade), and many conversations over coffee--philosophical conversations, spiritual discussions, nonsensical musings, emotional sharings.

I am thankful to all my brothers and sisters, my cum plus munus. While we no longer live within seven minutes of each other (ten if we amble or are shoving an umbrella stroller along the broken pavement), you all live in my heart, where it takes no time at all to come together.