Category: ESSAYS

Gloria’s Gift

Posted on by Louise Canfield


Late for our appointment, I prayed I hadn’t missed her. I badly needed help with the house and had been dismally unsuccessful in finding it. This lady came highly recommended by my neighbor Elaine, who gives new meaning to the word “picky.†As I rushed toward my cul-de-sac, I met a weather-beaten SUV headed toward me. Hoping it might be Gloria, I waved it down, and luckily, it was.
She was a large woman; very pretty with skin the color of honey and a ready smile. I estimated her age to be 40-something, and her ample breasts and broad hips suggested multiple childbirths. There was a peaceful manner about her, but there was something more. Something elusive. Something that seemed to insulate her from the chaos around her.A person sitting on the ground in front of water.
Gloria waved off my apologies for being late even though the round trip to my house would have cost at least five dollars, given the price of gas at the time. She quickly went to work, assessing what needed to be done, shaking blinds, running her hands over door jams, moving furniture, lifting sofa pillows. Given the extent of cleaning she proposed, I was expecting her service to be expensive. But her estimate was suprisingly reasonable. (Did I mention that Elaine is also good with a dollar?) I seized the opportunity.
From the first day, I knew I was uncommonly lucky to have found her. Gloria and her crew were fabulous. They were fast, thorough, professional and embarrassingly affordable.
But in spite of the fact that she spent several hours in my home twice a month, I really knew very little about Gloria. She was always courteous, but she answered any questions not directly related to housekeeping with a polite “Yes†or “No.†Gloria never discussed her personal life, and I never pressed. So I expected only a polite “Thank you,†when she received her Christmas bonus. But as she opened her pay envelope, her face lit up, and she smiled broadly.

“Well, THIS will come in handy,†she said, happily waving the check in her hand.

“Good!†I said, expecting to hear about something she wanted for herself or her family.

She continued, uncharacteristically animated.

“My mom works at the hospital, and there’s this lady they brought in last weekend – I don’t know what’s wrong, but she’s real sick. She’s in ICU. And the saddest thing, she had a little boy with her. He just sits by himself in the family lounge. He’s been there all this time. The nurses bring him food and blankets, but he never leaves the hospital. He only speaks Spanish, so Mom’s the only one can understand him. The little boy, his name is Lucas, said they came here to see a doctor for his grandmother, and that he was five, but Mom couldn’t find out anything more. They seem to be alone. Mom thinks they’re homeless. So this will buy a present for him and some clean clothes!â€

She smiled broadly. And then suddenly to my surprise, she gave me a bear hug. “Thanks,†she said. “And Merry Christmas.â€

After she left, I sat for several minutes thinking about what had just happened. I had expected she would do with extra money just what I would have done. But unlike most of us, Gloria had not lost her balance in the whirlwind of the holiday season. She still knew the true meaning of a Christmas gift. And that was her gift to me, the one I needed most.

Why I Knit

Posted on by Louise Canfield


JJ, my grandson recently asked me “Gramma, why do you always knit!†( emphasis on “knit.â€) I don’t remember what I said, something offhand like, “I just enjoy it,†but it got me thinking. Something that occupies so much space in my life (and my closets) must be more than simple enjoyment. After all, I enjoy singing, but thankfully I don’t A person sitting on the ground in front of water.sing everywhere I go. But I knit everywhere I can get away with it; in waiting rooms, in restaurants, on airplanes, in cars, in meetings, watching TV, visiting friends. I haven’t knit at checkout lines in grocery stores, in church or at stoplights, YET, but I have to admit it’s tempting…
Case in point: I would not for one moment entertain the thought of going on a trip lasting more than 15 minutes without my knitting. For extended (more than an hour) trips I spend as much if not more time choosing knitting project(s) as I do my wardrobe. The project has to be mindless enough to be worked in poor light, on bumpy roads and cramped conditions, but interesting enough that I don’t hate it after the first 8 rows. It has to be small enough not to engulf me but large enough to last the trip. There have been many times when four inches into the project I have admitted defeat and “frogged it,†(knitting jargon for rip the sucker out). So it needs to be “on the needles†far enough to know it will work. Which brings up Cardinal Rule No. 1: NEVER leave home with just ONE knitting project.
The extent to which I will endure indignity and ridicule for knitting is astounding. I have retrieved stray skeins from under the seats of disgruntled passengers three seats ahead on planes. I have been stopped on freeways because yarn was trailing behind the car. I’ve been refused service in yarn shops until I’ve knit some of my stash. My oldest yarn was purchased in Australia in 1960. OK, it’s an obsession.
But there are also practical reasons to knit. I cannot open the refrigerator or the pantry door with knitting needles in my hand. Knitting combats boredom and discourages chatty seat mates on airplanes. And more than once I have overcome the urge to offer unsolicited commentary by focusing on my knitting.
And knitting is pleasurable. The luxurious yarns, the exquisite rosewood needles, handmade stitch markers, fanciful knitting bags. And the delight of watching the pattern develop as the fabric grows in your hands, the satisfaction of admiring the finished piece.
But these are superficial reasons. The real reasons I knit are intangible. First of all, knitting connects me to my grandmothers. As the yarn slips between my fingers, around the needle, around again, off the needle, around once more, I can envision them knitting by lamplight at the end of the day. My knitting projects are chosen from an almost endless supply of inspiring patterns and beautiful yarns; their choices were limited to what was available. Often yarn was homespun, or was recovered from an older garment that had become too worn or too small. Most of what they made were necessities. But their handwork was often the only creative outlet they had. And they produced beautiful things with few resources. I sometimes fear that the ease of my life has blunted the strength and creativity that might have been passed to me through their genes.
Knitting is a sisterhood. No matter our race, age, political or religious view, if we are knitters, we are sisters. I rarely know much about the lives of the women I knit with, but I know who they are by what they knit, how they knit, and the stories they tell. Some of the heartiest laughs and most tearful exchanges I have ever had have been around knitting tables.
And knitting teaches humility. You can’t pretend to knit or perform a stitch you don’t know. You can’t hide your mistakes. If it should have been a purl and not a knit, or a knit two together instead of a yarn over, it’s there for everyone to see. And sometimes it’s important to just be OK with the mistakes. Good practice for life.
Finally, knitting can be a prayer. Prayer shawls and blankets knit with thoughts of warmth and comfort provide garments for healing and protection from the cold.
So, that’s it, JJ. I knit for all these reasons which will make no sense to you now, but these days men knit as well. So maybe you’ll be a knitter one day. And perhaps your grandson will ask someday, “Grampa, why do you always knit?â€

The Good Doctor

Posted on by Louise Canfield


I believe there are a few people in all our lives who truly make a difference; who guide us through some critical passage.  In my case, one of the most important was my Berkeley undergraduate advisor.  A person sitting on the ground in front of water. I was recently put in contact with her after many years, and given the opportunity to write her a letter of thanks. I share it in honor of the caring mentors who make a difference in the lives of young people everywhere.

Dear Dr.  Good:
You saved me.
I doubt you will believe that for a minute. You probably don’t even remember me. That was 1970 for Heaven’s sake! I was just one of hundreds, maybe thousands, of students in your long career who knew you as “The Good Doctor.†I don’t think you knew that, either.

You weren’t  originally assigned to me, but you agreed to serve as my advisor when I came to you confused and distressed over my experience with another “advisor.† Careless and perfunctory advising were unfortunately pervasive. One of my friends had to complete 12 hours of PE in the last semester!  But your  skillful guidance through the byzantine maze of the Berkeley class catalog  enabled me to complete my undergraduate degree in three years.  You didn’t have to do that.  But you did. You saved me.

I was also fortunate to be one of your students.  In memory I see you standing by the lab bench in your bespattered white lab coat, ignoring the eye-rolls of the premeds, earnestly answering my questions as though hearing these remarkable insights for the very first time. I did not have the advantage of attending Berkeley High across the street. You knew that. You saved me.

Nowadays it’s not unusual to be a returning student, but in 1967, a twenty-seven year old woman entering Berkeley as a freshman could expect polite tolerance at best.  I once overheard a student remark to her friend that I was taking up space that should be given to a younger student.  A chemistry professor suggested I consider teaching chemistry in high school – “I suppose you could do scientific research,“ he told me dismissively “but it will always be harder for you than for the other students.†  I remember tears welling up in my eyes as I slunk away,  shamed for my outrageous grandiosity in taking his time.

And it was definitely not cool to be a Southern white woman at Berkeley during the time of Angela Davis and Malcolm X.  Somehow, in that bastion of freedom and  justice,  derision of a southern drawl did not qualify as prejudice.  But my ancestry did not matter to you.   You saved me.

These were years of intense social upheaval and it was not unusual for lectures to drift from the course material to the  professor’s passionate if sometimes eccentric,  political views. One professor cautioned us to avoid air conditioning  because we were being irradiated through the air vents by the local power company.  But you never discussed politics. You discussed science. That’s what I came for.   You saved me.

There is so much for which to thank you, so many conversations and hours of tutoring, and of course, your skillful advising. But your most important gift to me was your simple acceptance of me as nothing more nor less than another of your students.  You never singled me out.  Your regard for me was no different than for the Korean student struggling with English or the Phi Beta Kappa student on the fast track to Harvard.

You will say you did nothing, that I did all the work. While it’s true, I provided the thread and did the stitching, you provided the fabric; the respect and validation I so desperately needed in order to move forward.   And that saved me.

So thanks, Dr. Good. Thanks for just being “The Good Doctor.â€

Someday

Posted on by Louise Canfield


A person sitting on the ground in front of water.

“That ship sailed.” I say that a lot these days. So many things now,  that I won’t or can’t do again.   I will not,  for example,  be partying all night,  taking the “red-eye” cross country, wearing sequined jeans,  getting a tattoo, signing up to run a 10K or any other kind of “K”,  or tottering around in shoes with spiky 4″ heels.   And I’m OK with all of that.

If we’re lucky, we all grow old.   And I’m OK with that too.    But I never noticed it happening to me as I navigated life’s passages;  graduation, career,   marriage,  parenting,  the AARP card, grandchildren, downsizing and finally  retirement.

But I didn’t feel old!   OK, maybe I was starting to get arthritis,  maybe it did take longer to “bounce back” from winter colds,  perhaps I did need those “readers” more now.   So I did give up running for walking,  and power aerobics for yoga.   And could it be true that our children were  receiving their  AARP cards?  Unsettling,  but…  I still had  time, plenty of time -  to take that trip,  to be  with family and friends, brush up my piano technique and  attend concerts,  to visit that lonely person,  to read books,  to write books.  Those were my dreams.  And I’d get around to them.  Someday.

I don’t know the exact moment when I knew  life  actually had changed.  Was it a day when someone opened a door I didn’t need opened – or ran to pick up the sunglasses I dropped,  was it my sharp intake of breath at my reflection under the harsh lights of the beauty shop,  or (please, God, no), when someone called me  “cute?”  No matter.   It’s true.   Things have changed,  they have really changed.    And while I haven’t experienced substantial losses, yet, praise God,  a thousand “little sailings” unnoticeable at the time,  have  manifested in sea changes in my life over the years.   Life was never, after all,  endless journeys to far horizons,  but a voyage through tributaries, narrowing  to one.  I am at that tributary.

And that was not OK with me.  Not at all.

I have always worked toward goals that catapulted me toward  new ones.  That made sense in my 40s,  but it was foolish  now.  My fear of aging would not let me see that I was no longer sailing toward a destination,  but had arrived.  So  I continued to postpone my dreams

as I always had  – to Someday.  When I was older. Not now.  Not yet.

But as I watched friends battling terrifying chronic diseases,  becoming incapacitated,  losing spouses with fat bank accounts still intact, I had to admit that in fact, Someday was here.   Time to  face my fear of growing old.  I didn’t enjoy that at first.   But this foolish denial was costing me my dreams.   Time to get busy.  Things to do.  Time to welcome Someday.

So I’ll be scheduling that  trip, spending time with the grandkids, going to those concerts, writing, reading,  hanging out with my friends and family.    It’s Someday.  And my ship has drifted safely in to port.

 

 

Nothing new under the sun

Posted on by Louise Canfield


According to the latest Fox News Poll,  a majority of us have concluded that  the world’s “going to hell in a handbasket.  http://fxn.ws/ZEIRzI  

A person sitting on the ground in front of water. The inference seems to be that we have arrived at an all-time low  in human history.  But before  preparing for Armageddon, perhaps we might consider the  verses below written by King Solomon circa 931 BC.

In that year civil war erupted; the tribes were divided into Israel and Judah, and battles continued for centuries.   Unhappily, struggles  for power and control  seem to be hard-wired into the human condition.   And Fox News is by means the first to suggest our certain downfall.   What’s amazing is that we are still here, in spite of  all the horrors we have inflicted on each other over the years.  Proof that good ultimately triumphs over evil in spite of all the carnage in its wake.  But will there come a day when our spirits  have evolved to match our technology?  And can we then learn not to revisit our tragic mistakes on future generations?

A person sitting on the ground in front of water.

  What has been, that will be;
  what has been done, that will be done.
  Nothing is new under the sun.
 Even the thing of which we say, “See, this is new!â€
has already existed in the ages that preceded us.

There is no remembrance of the men of old;
nor of those to come will there be any remembrance
 among those who come after them.

                                                                                                                 Ecclesiastes 1:9

A brown and white dog laying on the ground.

Big lessons from a small dog

Posted on by Louise Canfield


A person sitting on the ground in front of water.

In a wheelchair beside the Nurses’ Station, a tiny old woman sits, eyes closed, lips parted, hands folded in her lap. Her head droops to one side.  Ragged wisps of hair fall across her forehead.  Her nightgown is rumpled, one slipper missing.

She is alone. Silent, but not asleep.  Visitors pass, a staff member rushing by jostles her wheelchair but offers no apology.  She doesn’t speak. Hours pass. No one notices. Until…

A person sitting on the ground in front of water.A small dog being led by a visitor stops, pulls at his lead and sits quietly at the woman’s feet. After a few seconds, the woman opens her eyes and raises her head. A smile steals slowly across her weathered face at the sight of the little dog. Her watery eyes twinkle.  A surprisingly cheery voice breaks the silence. “Well, hello there! Aren’t you a pretty little thing?†A bony finger reaches down, strokes the little dog’s ear. He stands, reciprocates with a swift lick of his tongue, then sits again, looks up at her expectantly. They regard each other quietly. She reaches down and gently strokes his back.

She turns to the visitor, “Do you take good care of him?â€

“Yes, I do, †the visitor says.

“Well,  make sure you do, now, †she admonishes.  Her soft voice carries a certain honeyed lilt,  typical of that taught  in finishing schools for genteel southern ladies.

“Don’t worry,†the visitor assures her, “I’ll take good care of him, I promise.† A few minutes pass as the woman talks quietly to the little dog.

Finally, she looks up at the visitor, “Thank you.†she says softly.  “Can he come back sometime?”

“You’re welcome, “ says the visitor.  “Of course!  I’ll bring him to see you again.”

The woman smiles as the visitor and the little dog walk away down the hall.

——————–

I was the visitor, and the little dog was my Boston Terrier, Jake.  I was humbled by his simple and spontaneous act of caring.   My heart was heavy as I walked away, suddenly and acutely aware of the lonely, forgotten people around me; people who seldom if ever received visitors, whose lives had so little joy.   I had been one of the guests rushing past.  But what could I do? I didn’t know anything about her.  What if I upset her?  Besides I was busy with all the cumbersome paperwork and scheduling  for my husband’s  short-term physical therapy.

But, in fact….The entire episode lasted less than 5 minutes.  No introductions were made, none needed.  No approval forms were required,  no money changed hands.   A little dog simply administered the strongest medicine of all: love freely given with no thought of return.  Can I do as much?