The Joy of a Simple Shoe Box

Here is an excerpt from the article I wrote on Operation Christmas Child which M and I co-ordinate on the North Shore. The article was published in the Deep Cove Crier earlier this month:

Every year many North Shore residents pack a shoe box filled with toys, school supplies and hygiene items as a gift for a child elsewhere in the world. Since 1993 Operation Christmas Child, a project of Samaritan’s Purse, has distributed gift-filled shoe boxes to children who are often living in situations affected by war, poverty and natural disaster.

The joy of the shoe box, I’ve noticed, is not just that of the child who receives it in a far-off part of the world. The joy is also that of the individual who selects a toy for the boy or girl who will receive the shoe box and then adds to it a note pad, pens and pencils, bars of soap, hard candy and other items appropriate for the gender and age of the child.

Many individuals, families, schools, churches, businesses and community groups across the North Shore participate in this annual fun event. For some, it’s an event that they plan for throughout the year. Cathy Shorten lost her home and car in an apartment fire eighteen months ago. Despite having to rebuild her life, she continues to fill as many shoe boxes as she can, buying items on sale throughout the year.

“I started with one shoe box in 1999,” says Cathy, “and this year I will fill twenty shoe boxes. It’s become a hobby. I collect items all year long and my friends help too. I don’t have grandchildren and so I see these children as my grandchildren.”

And it’s not just adults who fill the shoe boxes, children love shopping for their shoe boxes too. For Desirée Botha, mother of two and administrator at Cove Church, filling the shoe boxes is an annual family tradition. “Children don’t have a choice about the situation they find themselves in,” says Desirée, “and we want to teach our girls, from a young age, that not everyone has what they have”. The Botha family let their daughters choose whether they want to fill a shoe box for a girl or a boy. “Our girls buy crafts and crayons for the other children because that is what they like,” says Desirée.

It just takes one shoe box to make a difference. You can use any standard sized shoe box of your own or pick one up from Ingledews at Park Royal North, Blenz Coffee Shop on Lonsdale or North Shore Alliance Church at 201 East 23rd Street. Churches in your area may also be participating. And it doesn’t have to be a shoe box. Shatterproof plastic containers that are a standard shoe box size can also be used.

There are a few do’s and don’ts to packing a shoe box. Do pack a balanced shoe box appropriate for the age group and gender you have chosen. A balanced shoe box will include small toys, hygiene items, hard candy, school supplies and a personal note for the child who will receive your shoe box. Don’t pack in used items, toothpaste (customs regulation), anything that will harm or scare children (e.g. war and Halloween toys), food items and anything that will melt or freeze.

Every gift-filled shoe box is given unconditionally, regardless of religion, gender, or race to children in need to bring hope in difficult circumstances. Shoe boxes from Western Canada are directed to Central and South America. Last year, Canadians filled over 640,000 shoe boxes with gifts destined for children in the developing world. Of this number, the North Shore Collection Centre, based out of North Shore Alliance Church, collected over 2,400 shoe boxes.

It’s fun thing to do and as Cathy Shorten said, “It’s a bit like being Santa Claus. It’s neat to think that the kids will open their gifts and be so thrilled.”

Mid-Life Maintenance

I suck the saliva shimmering in my mouth and swallow. "Whoth idea wath thith?" I ask M. He commiserates with a sympathetic smile and cuddles me in his arms. I let a few tears slide on to his shoulder. "Thith ith mitherable," I lisp again.
"Ag, Pops, I feel for you," he commiserates once more.

I see the sympathy in his eyes. My mouth already hurts and my lips bulge over the braces that will be resident on my teeth for two years. It's not pretty. I know it. And I see it in M's eyes. My husband doesn't lie to me. And I love that about him.

As unattractive as the braces are, it's the retainer I have to wear for the first two months that is the worst right now. It causes a speech impediment and saliva collects between it and my palate. I'm lisping and swallowing. My daily word count has dropped drastically. I say as little as possible.

Eating is a sad experience: soft food, slow chewing, and little conversation. But it's the food collecting between the retainer and my palate that grosses me out. I'm done. I whip out the offender in the bathroom, rinse the food off it and leave the retainer languishing alone on the counter.

"But you've got nice teeth" and "There's nothing wrong with your teeth" were common comments from friends when I shared about my mid-life maintenance. Yes, I know, but it's all thanks to a toffee and being a teenager.

I remember the day twenty plus years ago. A history assignment was due. I chewed a toffee, a Toff-O-Lux to be precise, while I worked on the assignment in the William Cullen Library at Wits University. Crunch! I bit into a filling and the part of the tooth that the toffee had successfully broken off from the back of my mouth. There wasn't much of my molar left standing. The dentist decided to pull what was left of the tooth. And that was that. Until now.

Twenty-four years on, my bottom teeth have slowly been slipping into the cavity, and my top teeth are moving too, as the structure of my mouth is compromised. If I want teeth I can rely on in my later years, I should correct it now.

I finally finish my dinner.
"I'll clean up," says M. "You go clean your teeth."
I do.

"That took long. I was going to come and look for you," M says when I finally join him in the kitchen.
"Not another morsel of food is passing my lips tonight," I reply.
"Are you wearing your retainer?' he asks.
"No, I couldn't face it after the saga of getting the food out of my braces."
"Oh, that's why I can understand what you're saying," he replies.
"Yes, and when you see me do this," I pull my lips into a forced smile. "I'm not smiling. I'm resting my cheeks from the metal brackets that are cutting into them."
"Ag, Pops," M says again, "I feel for you."

I'm feeling pretty sorry for myself too. I'm mourning the festive food I won't get to eat this Christmas season and the lipstick I won't be wearing because it marks the clear braces on my top teeth. But on the upside, soon I'll look dynamite in that form fitting black skirt and that is something to smile about or, at least, rest the inside of my mouth about.

Yeah! A Sick Day

"Are you sure you should go in today?" M asks as I put the finishing touches to my work outfit. "You don't want to make Carole sick too," he adds. He is right. I shouldn't spread the joy of my cold around.

But what to do? Now I'm all dressed up for work with nowhere to go. I don't feel terrible, just a little more than a bit off-colour, so no need to head back to bed. I make another cup of tea and head for the study looking for something to do. I guess I could clear this pile of papers leaning Pisa-like on my desk.

I pick up the newspaper on the top of the pile. Yes, I want to phone Jackie and thank her and her daughters for posing for a photograph for an article I wrote on the Samaritan's Purse shoe boxes and which made it into the North Shore News. The photograph that is, not the article. The article made it into the Deep Cove Crier, so all is good.

It's a bit too early to call someone in Vancouver but South Africa will do. I call home and have a good talk with my Mom. Next I call Jackie and we have a good talk too. "You should have sick days more often," Jackie says as we end our conversation. "I know, at least we get to have a talk," I laugh.

I finish and publish two blogs I wrote the morning before and feel satisfied. I'm enjoying this sick day. What else can I knock off my personal to do list? Mmm, I should start my next article for the Deep Cove Crier. I start do some research and put in a call to the owner of the business I'm writing about to ask a few questions. I sneeze; my eyes water and I reach for a tissue.

I don't care for the sore throat, the stuffy nose or red tired eyes but this cloud of cold has its benefits. I'm pleased I took Doctor M's advice to stay at home today. Well, at least for the morning, this afternoon there is some work that can't wait until I'm feeling better but there is always tomorrow morning and I'm sure I won't be feeling any better by then.

A Norfolk Island Pine

For the first time in a couple of years, M and I will have a Christmas tree. For a long time we tree-sat a friend's artificial Christmas tree while he was working in the Middle East. When he returned from his extended work period abroad, we returned his tree in its box.

We talked about buying another tree. We didn't want a real tree that drops needles, dries out, becomes a fire hazard and has to be disposed of at the end of the season. We shopped around for the artificial kind only to find that we weren't prepared to pay over $200 for a bit of cheer that will last a month at the most, even if it comes around once a year. No, we'll wait for the after season sales we said. We did, only to find that in January we had lost our taste to buy a tree only to take it home and store it until the end of the year.

And so a couple of years went by with no tree in our home, until this Saturday night. Shopping at WalMart, the first thing I see as we walk in the door is a pint size pine in a pot. Perfect, it won't dry out and this tree doesn't look like it will drop needles. Its leaves are soft and feathery. And at $12.50 it is in our price range. I look at M, "Please, let's buy a Christmas tree." We choose our tree and into the cart our nearly waist high tree goes.

Not familiar with this particular store, we get lost up and down aisles looking for items: cleaning materials, packing tape, shoe polish, a heating pad for M's sore shoulder and bird seed. All our items finally tracked down and placed in the cart with our Christmas tree; M pulls me away from the book stand and says, "We should buy a card for Pete."

We follow the signs and find the cards. M takes the cart from me and leaves it tucked away behind a display in the middle aisle out of everyone's way. We look high and low, there just isn't a suitable greeting card for Pete. None of the blank cards will do. We head out to the middle aisle and our cart. M walks up a few aisles and starts to look lost.

"Did you forget where you parked it?" I ask.

"I left it about here," he says.

The only cart in the vicinity of here, unattended, is empty - tucked away, nice and empty. We walk the aisles quickly looking for someone who may have mistakenly made off with our cart and our Christmas tree. We don't find a case of mistaken identity. I feel frustration and tiredness fill me.

Well, there's nothing else to do. We have to start again. I head for another Christmas tree and M gets another cart. Now that we know where everything is, we delegate who is getting what. In less than ten minutes, everything is packed in the cart. Wow, that was quick. We head for the checkout counter. "Did another Christmas tree come through here?" I want to ask the person at the checkout. But she wouldn't get my tired humour.

Bizarre. What was that all about? But at least we still have a lovely Norfolk Island Pine for a Christmas tree this year. And, for all we know, it may be the one we originally chose. When I showed our replacement tree to M, he said, "That looks like our first tree." That's what I thought too.

Surely, WalMart staff isn't that efficient to unpack an unattended cart so quickly. Besides which, where did they put M's cap which he left in the cart? And was it just co-incidence that there was an empty cart where M left our cart? Bizarre. Bizarre.

Hawaii on a Bun

When it comes to eating out, M follows my lead - mostly. More often than not we order the same main course and the same thing to drink - two of everything. We even like our steak cooked the same way - medium well. Liking food as I do, M has come to trust what I order.

In our first year of marriage we visited Holland so that I could meet the extended family. Out for coffee and a piece of cake in Bronkhorst with his aunt and uncle, M ordered the town's namesake, Bronkhorstkoek, to go with his coffee. I decided on plain apple tart and cream. M got a boring sliver of square cake on his plate while my apple tart was robust with a generous dollop of cream. Rather than look at my order with longing and his with disappointment, over the years, M has switched to ordering what I order. Mostly.

Recently we were at our favourite haunt for burgers, Bob's in Sumas USA, with our friends who first introduced us to this amazing burger place (see Bob's my Burger February 2010). Waiting at the border to cross into the States, I say to M, "Order the Hawaiian burger. You won't be disappointed." Instead M orders the Aloha. "Are you sure you don't want the Hawaiian?" I ask as I place my order. M seems happy with his choice. No well, fine. I did check. Our burgers arrive. My Hawaiian swells with pineapple rings, grilled onions and stacks of back bacon. M's has the pineapple rings and grilled onions but no back bacon. It's not nearly as impressive.

M eyes my burger. "I told you to order the Hawaiian," I say as a slip a roast potato fry off his plate. I prefer the traditional slim cut French fries to the roast potato size fries M orders, but a little taste is still good. "Next time, go Hawaiian," I say as I remove the top part of the bun and tackle my monster burger in my usual way, with a knife and fork.

A House to Dream By

I stride up Lonsdale headed to do business. Fifty feet from our building I spy the open house sign. Bonus, bonus, bonus! The heritage house a couple of doors up from our apartment is for sale and today, a week day, is open house for realtors. I take a sharp left, go through the bold black door and step into another world.

"Are you a realtor?" I'm asked. No just a dreamer I want to reply.
"I've always wanted to know what this house looks like on the inside," I say. "I'm not in the market to buy."
"Well, today you're going to find out," says the realtor. I sure am and I'm delighted.

Being a lookey-loo, I feast my eyes as quickly as I can without being intrusive. The realtor trusts me to go upstairs on my own but keeps watch at the bottom of the stairs. I'm only here to steal ideas, storylines, atmosphere and history. I'm smitten with the romance of the house: high ceilings, a marble fireplace, bold windows, interleading rooms, crystal chandeliers and the black and white Italian tile. There is ample evidence that the current occupants are artists and musicians.

As I come down the stairs, I start to see a story unfold: a story of intrigue, conflict, resolution and life. Somehow I know that should I ever write a novel it will be centred on a house. And not a house of great grandeur, I don't care for large homes; they are often all show, little class and no character. No, it will be a house similar to this one. But even this one will need some alterations to go with the story.

I head back up Lonsdale redecorating the kitchen and bathroom. I keep some of the furniture, especially the large white framed mirror propped against the wall in the dining room. I change the colour on the walls in the living room; it will need to be a bolder and stronger colour to go with the story. The bedroom gets a dramatic bed with posts and bright art on the walls. I leave the desk just where it is but the artist in the house will be a writer not a painter and the musician will play the piano, not an electric guitar.

My dreams stop with the red light that tells me not to cross the busy intersection. Before I bring that house to life in words, I have bills to pay and accounting work to do. I cross on the green light and step into the life that helps to pay those bills and one day fund a dream.