Shoeboxes

The first shoebox I remember came to me the day we moved from Rockton to Abitibi Canyon. The moving truck had come and gone and we were getting ready for the 12-hour drive. It felt like we were moving to another country.

Rockton was a very small town – a village really – just a detour off a regional highway with two stores and a gas station. Every Saturday we would get a dime to spend on penny candy at the smallest shop. On the day we left Mrs. Tanner, the owner of the shop, gave my sister and I a shoebox. Not one to share, as often happened, but one each. The shoebox was full of Archie comics and candy to keep us busy on the long trip North. Mrs. Tanner has long since passed away and I wonder if she ever knew how much those boxes meant to my sister and I.

The second shoebox is the one that got me thinking about shoeboxes. One Christmas, my sister and I each received a shoebox full of Barbie clothes. And these weren’t any old clothes. They were handmade, not store-bought. And, we each got a different selection. Each box contained a wedding dress and a variety of other outfits. I suspect there were shoes, but my Barbie never wore them.

The media hype around the Barbie movie has me reflecting on my own Barbie experiences. When we got out Barbies, my blonde sister got a blonde Barbie and I got a brunette. The hair differences were enough to let us tell them apart, but my Barbie’s were always more recognizable for another reason: I chewed off her feet. My Barbie just had nubs where her rubbery feet should have been. It didn’t keep her from enjoying her life in the Barbie camper or the Barbie airplane I got years later, when I knew to be embarrassed about her missing feet.

The third shoebox was one of my own creation. In grades 7 & 8, we boarded a bus once a week to drive to Wilmot Centre where the girls took home economics and the boys did industrial arts.

It was the 70s, so the weirdness of the gender division was the norm. There were other weird things that happened. We had to ear a “sewing machine driver’s license” by following lines on paper, without thread, to show we could control the machine. The hardest one was the spiraling circles, but I got it eventually. In addition to passing the test, we had to make a sewing box. We had to bring in a shoebox to decorate then use to store the supplies we’d need for sewing. It was the only time we were provided materials. I chose aqua tissue paper that I pâpier-machéd on my box, adding string for texture. The string, and my fingertips, took on that same hue.

We were responsible for our own sewing supplies: pins, thread, patterns, fabric. In grade 8 I made an awesome blue pinstriped gaucho jumpsuit. I remember shopping for the fabric with my mom. Decades later, I wonder if buying fabric was ever a burden for any of my classmates.

I made the gauchos on the right. Picture how fantastic that looked in navy blue pinstripes!

I said yes

There’s no way that’s happening, I thought as I read the email from the school district coordinator in charge of student teacher placements. There’s no way in heck that I am having a student teacher this year.

I reached out to my twin sister, a former teacher-principal-assistant superintendent, and she asked, “Why not?”.

Although I had a lot of good reasons to say no, cracks appeared in my armor.

So, I emailed some questions to my principal, CCing the school district coordinator in charge of student teacher placements. I got good info back and set up an interview with the candidate. Apparently we interview now to make sure it’s a good fit.

What began as a Zoom interview, quickly evolved into a delightful conversation. My candidate, a little older than the average student teacher, is starting a second career. I knew a few minutes in what my answer was going to be.

There’s some HR paperwork to do and I need to take a Zoom training for cooperating teachers, but it looks like I’ll have a student teacher this year.

The Four-Hour Window

Way back near the beginning of the year, my dishwasher began to falter, then, it failed. For the next few months, I opted to wash the dishes by hands, finding the idea of shopping for a new dishwasher overwhelming. The thought of possibly having to find a sub quickly once the installation date was assigned paralyzed me. I decided the new dishwasher would be a summer project.

The week after school ended, I began the research, made some choices then went in to make the arrangements. A date was selected and I was told that I’d be given a four-hour window the night before the big day.

The message came Sunday evening:

I spent Monday morning in my usual way until the four-hour window began.

THE FIRST HOUR

Six stops before me.

I do some math in my head. If each stop takes about 30 minutes, that will put them here around 1:30. I take Richard for an extra walk. He usually sleeps very deeply after lunch, but I want to be sure it happens today. I have an early lunch, just in case my calculations are off.

THE SECOND HOUR

Four stops before me.

After lunch, I often nap alongside Richard. I ate lunch early, but feel ready for a nap at my “usual” time. I dare not fall asleep. Snuggled on the bed with Richard, I try to read, but feel distracted. I put on a new episode of one of my favorite YouTube knitting presenters and pull out my knitting. Two things to keep my mind focused.

Halfway through the hour, a message arrives: only two stops before me. I move Richard’s bed and water bowls to make it easy to move things in and out.

THE THIRD HOUR

Only one stop before me.

The phone rings. I anticipate it is the delivery team, but it is not. It is a reminder of Richard’s appointment with the allergist later this week.

1:25 – Team dishwasher arrives!

THE FOURTH HOUR

Removal and installation begin. A test run reveals no leaks and all is working as it should. The work is finished in just over 30 minutes. Now, I need to dirty some dishes so I can try it out myself

Here are the before and after shots:

The News

Two weeks ago, at a routine vet visit for vaccinations, I asked about the lumps on the back of each of Richard’s hind legs. My life changed forever. She said they were enlarged lymph nodes. Richard didn’t get the vaccinations. Instead, the vet did a needle aspiration of the nodes and I waited for word, fearing the worst.

Four days later, on my last day at school, I was sitting in my packed up classroom, killing time until my checkout appointment. My phone rang. The worst news came: lymphoma.

Even though I’d expected it, the news shattered me. The vet was great. She sent me the names of several oncologists, and told me which was her preference. I called them and had to leave a message with details of Richard’s diagnosis that they would check on then call me back to schedule an appointment.

The crazy thing was, I was leaving on a red eye the next morning to go to Chicago. Richard was going to stay at Sniff Dog Hotel. It seemed wrong to leave him, having received the news, but it was the end of my service on the Sibert Committee and we were going to celebrate our winners. With doubts in my heart, I went.

I was in a taxi on Michigan Avenue when the oncologist’s office called me back.

“We’ve had a cancellation and can get you in on Monday, if that works,” she offered kindly.

I told her I was in Chicago and wouldn’t be home until late Monday night. Fortunately, they had an opening on Wednesday.

I felt anxious Wednesday morning, puttering around the house to take my mind off the decisions I might have to make. But, when I got to the oncologist’s office a delightful surprise met my eyes: a photo of my dog Fiona, was hanging on the wall.

I’d taken her and Lucy to see a professional photographer years ago. In addition to our photos, the photographer was working on an “Old Dog Project” and took some extra photos which later ended up in a show at a downtown gallery. Apparently, the oncologist was at the show and made a connection with the photographer who regularly shows her work in this office. I took it as a good sign.

Richard got his first treatment. Almost a week later, his lymph nodes are a bit smaller and I have hope. He begins chemotherapy tomorrow and I can’t help but thinking that Fiona will be there to help both of us through it all.