How I became a Streetwalker

Thanks to the funeral of the mother of my son-in-law’s best man and a conference on palliative care, I have become a streetwalker.

For the past week, I have been primary caregiver to Toby, our 2-year-old grandson. Toddlers, in addition to being very busy all of the time and eating and drinking non-stop, love to spend as much time a possible out of doors. The word stroller can put an immediate end to even the most ferocious, irrational terrible twos tantrum. And since our boy has not been in tip top physical shape lately I have had to play the card more frequently than usual.

I must admit, however, that I have become somewhat addicted to our neighbourhood strolls. Eglinton Avenue is a miracle of vehicular eye candy: city buses, school buses, taxis (but so far we recognize only turquoise and orange Beck cabs), vans of every shape and size but invariably painted white, motorcycles, police cars, garbage trucks and magnificent red fire trucks that always seems to be speeding to or from their station around the corner.

Lately, however, the excitement of these has been eclipsed by the hundreds of Hydro trucks tail to nose lining every street. Last week, yellow helmeted workers in swaying cherry-pickers pruned the trees while their mates on the ground raised and installed the new super-high poles and fitted them with metal pulleys and thingamabobs to hold the more powerful cables. This week, they dangled above our heads restringing the wires, and removing and reattaching the streetlights. Next week, we predict, the street-sign contingent will perform a similar manoeuvre with the parking signs (boo! hiss!) and following that, we await the thrill of the demolition and removal of the old concrete poles. I do seem to be getting into this, don’t I?

During our walks, I have learned to see the world through eyes that are much closer to the ground than my own. Who knew there was so much litter on the ground? A refrain of “What’s THAT, Gramma? What’s THAT, Gramma? What’s THAT, Gramma?” marks time with my steps as a little finger points out every piece of detritus along the way. And when did the invasion of worm-starved robins occur? Not to mention the glut of dogs. Even Glenfiddich with his finely-tuned terrier nose cannot detect ‘doggies’ two blocks away.

When Toby isn’t outside, he spends his time practicing his favourite sports: golf, tennis (played just like golf but with the club held in the air), curling (played just like golf but lying on your belly and with the club acting as a broom), hockey, snowboarding (pillows on a bed make a fine ersatz ski hill), baseball and soccer. The other day he announced, a look of incredulous horror on his face, that he couldn’t play basketball (pronounced ‘bastetball’) because he didn’t have a ‘bastet!’ He knew there was one at the park (pronounced ‘part’) but had found it useless as all the balls we had were the wrong size. Yesterday, during our morning excursion my eyes spied two slightly-used but still beautiful tot-sized bastetballs sitting on the side of the road waiting to find a good home. So we scooped them up and headed to the part where Toby honed his shooting skills and I celebrated the fruits of viewing the world from the knees down and having become a successful streetwalker.