Stairs That Tell a Story: Glenora Stairs

Location: 97 Avenue and 109 Street
Stair Count: 202

Glenora Stairs.

Those two words alone can make half of Edmonton cringe just hearing them spoken aloud. Fitness boot-camps and athletes conditioning their bodies for events often use these stairs as exercise equipment. I've watched individuals with backpacks go up and down, then up and down again. I do not envy them.

One of the busier sets of stairs in the city, I think the only time I've been there without it being clogged with people was in early Covid days. Their downtown location makes them well-used year-round. In addition to physical fitness, they connect pedestrians to the High Level Bridge and LRT foot-bridge. The gravel parking lot--if you're lucky enough to find a spot--is free* and without a time-limit; I park there regularly when I have appointments in the area. The view from the top--or any of its steps, really--overlooks the river across to the forested south banks, and is prime real estate from which to watch the Canada Day fireworks.

For several years, I spent my summer months working as a community aide for a young boy on the autism spectrum. We went on outings daily, and more than once, we hit up the wading pool and splash deck of the Legislature grounds. Keen to make the most of any outing, I would purposely park in that gravel lot at the bottom of the stairs, making the stairs part of the excursion. Like most 4-year-olds, he loved counting when there was lots of something. Unlike most 4-year-olds, he could count significantly higher than 10 with accuracy.

So.

One morning, we counted our way up Glenora Stairs. 1... 2... 3...

The stair case has landings at two mid-way points, but he had no intention of stopping for a break on either of them.

74... 75... 76... 

Some of the other stair-users passed us on their way up. Others appreciated an excuse for the slower pace of this preschooler on a mission, and followed along behind us.

And eventually: 200... 201... 202!

At the very top landing, where the stairs spill out onto Constable Ezio Faraone Park, my charge let out a dramatic breath and groan like he'd just summited Mount Everest. The adults in earshot--myself included--chuckled; I exclaimed something along the lines of "we did it!"; and we continued on our way to the Legislature grounds.

I'm pretty sure he didn't think about those stairs again until we descended them to go home. My legs, on the other hand, reminded me of that climb for the rest of the day.

Yes, Glenora Stairs sees a lot of foot traffic; a conduit and corridor for getting people from here to there, top to bottom, bottom to top. Take them with breaks, or take them all in one shot. Take in the view as well.

And whether you're 4 or 40, when you reach the top, pause long enough to take a deep breath; you did it!

 

 

 

*The cost is actually ascending those stairs (or the steep incline of the Legislature's back road), because everything you might be doing in the area is UP.

A Moment for the Kindness of Strangers

The kindness of strangers over the last 48 hours or so has floored me--to the point that I can no longer keep the gratitude to myself. For anyone who needs some faith restored in the humanity around them today...

To the five people who pushed my car up a hill in a snow storm: you started as two. And when the neighbours, shovelling their own way out of the snow, noticed that two was not enough, they dropped what they were doing and flanked you both to help. I did not get a chance to say a proper thank you, but I heard you cheering along with me as you gave one last push into the intersection. ...I just want you to know, I made it home.

To the woman who helped me remove a shard of glass from my finger: I don't even know what you look like. I tend to get tunnel vision when I'm focused on a critical task; so as I stood at the sink in a busy public bathroom, all I was focused on was my finger. But I heard your voice beside me--encouraging me to squeeze the cut for you so you could help remove the glass. I know I could have worked it out on my own, but you saw a way to make it easier. I didn't see your face, but I saw your gentle fingers come in alongside mine, and gently wipe the shard away. "There! We got it!" you exclaimed. The accomplishment was as much yours as mine in the end. I heard you dispose of the paper towel, finally in a head space where I could look up to see you. But you had already turned away towards the door--and then you were gone. I just want you to know, tending another's wound--no matter how small--is a brave thing in my mind. Thank you for your bravery.

To the Airbnb guest who insisted on helping me clear my driveway: when I said, "1900 square feet," I was not exaggerating, but you didn't seem to mind. You grabbed the shovel while I started up my snow thrower--you did your thing, I did mine. I may have taken on most of the surface area, but you tackled all the stairs and the uneven path to the back gate. As far as I'm concerned, that's like voluntarily taking the heel of a loaf of bread; I just want you to know, I am extremely grateful.

To the lady who gave me her parking pass: I'd been pretty much go-go-go all day. And at the end of the afternoon, with one meeting still left, I stood in front of the parking lot pay machine, pausing to consider my options on the screen. There is something to be said for a pause in a busy day. As you started your car, your voice cut through the traffic around me, "Do you want my pass?" Thank you for sharing. I just want you to know, it may have felt like a little thing, but it was a meaningful thing.

Source unknown

The iPhone's Story

When my mobile phone contract was up for renewal back in 2012, the phone itself was pretty much expired as well, so I decided to upgrade my little flip phone to a smartphone. As the iPhone 5 had just been released, I was able to get an iPhone 4 for free with a three-year contract.

In this convenience-driven, everything-is-disposable society, I find myself part of the ever-shrinking minority of people who still use items until they are worn out or broken beyond repair, rather than just throwing them away at the first chance to 'upgrade.' At the time of acquiring my iPhone, its predecessor was being held together in spots with scotch tape.

My iPhone still has a year left on its contract before I can upgrade to something newer without penalty. In the last two years, my iPhone's screen cover and protective plastic housing have proven their worth several times over. I am fairly diligent about taking good care of my electronics--phone included. Still, that doesn't mean my phone hasn't seen its share of bumps and bruises. Really, given the appearance of many of my friends' and colleagues phones, it is a wonder that all the buttons still work properly and that my screen isn't cracked. The protective plastic case has taken on some scratches around the edges as it has sacrificed itself to protect the phone. The corners of the fabric back side have frayed. The screen protector no longer seals around its edges lining the speaker and home button. And on a recent trip to the States for work, the screen protector managed to acquire hefty scratch marks from being jostled around while sharing very close quarters with a sharp object.

As I first noticed this most recent scratch, I thought to myself, looks like I'll be shopping for a new screen protector when I get home. But as the day went on, I continued to use my phone without issue, hardly even noticing that the scratched section was there, except when I ran my finger over the newly abrasive spot. A decent screen cover runs about $20. With only a year left before I upgrade, if the functionality of the phone has not been compromised, I started to wonder, is a new screen protector really necessary?

And cost aside, this war wound tells a story. When someone sees it and asks what happened to my phone, I can tell them that I was walking along the white-sand shores of the Gulf of Mexico with a couple of colleagues when we noticed a school of sting rays swimming in the waves close to the shore. I can tell them how I took out my phone--screen still scratch free--and captured a short video of their graceful movements. I can tell my listener about how we then continued to track the sting rays along the shore. How they didn't seem to be in any hurry to move back out to sea. How I decided in that moment to get my real camera, which was still in my bag under a beach chair further up the beach. I can tell them how I stuffed my phone into my shorts pocket and made the sprint of my life through the soft sand* to the bag and back. How I snapped the shutter over and over, half galloping along the beach to keep just ahead of the gliding group, while simultaneously trying to capture the lead ray's fin when it would occasionally cut through the water's surface.

I can tell them how, when I was finally, truly out of breath, I stood on the shore for just a moment longer to take in some ocean air and watch them swim and disappear under a large wave. How we returned to our beach chairs and started packing up then, cameras and phones put bag into bags, while the excitement still lingered, and infused with a new peace as the sun started making its descent over the ocean. How I rinsed my feet and legs under the on-site shower, as much to wash away the sand as to cool myself off--still hot as I was after my impromptu run. How it was only when we approached the car in the parking lot that I pulled out my phone once again, and noticed that it was now heavily scratched in one spot. How I still cannot tell you if the scratch was acquired while it was in the pocket of my shorts as I ran, or in the pocket of my bag as we made our return to the car. How I only know that it came as a result of just fully being in the place where I was; taking in the sun, the sand, the warmth, the life--and forgetting everything else in that moment, including the phone. How sometimes an experience is worth a few scratches.

Yes, each mark on my phone tells a story--grand or otherwise. And while there would still be a story if I replaced the screen protector... somehow, without that scratch... It just wouldn't be the same.

 *which is delightful to sink your feet into but something else entirely to try and run through.

124/365

Arrived just in time for bedtime stories :)

Silver

Malachi 3:3 says: 'He will sit as a refiner and purifier of silver.'

This verse puzzled some women in a Bible study and they wondered what this statement meant about the character and nature of God. One of the women offered to find out the process of refining silver and get back to the group at their next Bible Study.

That week, the woman called a silversmith and made an appointment to watch him at work. She didn't mention anything about the reason for her interest beyond her curiosity about the process of refining Silver.

As she watched the silversmith, he held a piece of silver over the fire and let it heat up. He explained that in refining silver, one needed to hold the silver in the middle of the fire where the flames were hottest as to burn away all the impurities.

The woman thought about God holding us in such a hot spot; then she thought again about the verse that says: 'He sits as a refiner and purifier of silver.' She asked the silversmith if it was true that he had to sit there in front of the fire the whole time the silver was being refined.

The man answered that yes, he not only had to sit there holding the silver, but he had to keep his eyes on the silver the entire time it was in the fire. If the silver was left a moment too long in the flames, it would be destroyed. The woman was silent for a moment. Then she asked the silversmith, 'How do you know when the silver is fully refined?'

He smiled at her and answered, 'Oh, that's easy -- when I see my image in it.'

The Crazy Trip Home

Note: This blog entry happened chronologically before I actually started blogging. Prior to regular blogging, I would occasionally post musings and stories in the form of a Facebook Note. While I have, several years later, converted my Facebook notes into blog entries, I've decided to keep the chronology true to the original posting, regardless of platform.

It wasn’t fair. We arrived at the airport way in advance of the required ninety minutes before our flight was scheduled to leave. We made sure all our carry-on items met airport regulations. We booked the entire trip over two months ago. We did our job in making sure everything would go smoothly, and so far, everything had. So when we checked in at the gate to get our boarding passes for the flight back home, it didn’t even cross my mind that one of us wouldn’t get one.

I got my boarding pass; Vince didn’t. Are you kidding me? I’m thinking. I had to jump through about five hundred hoops just to make sure Vince was on the same flights as me when we booked the trip in the first place; there was not supposed to be any additional hassle.

“We’ve oversold our flight. Seat assignment is based on check-in times,” the rep* explained. But Vince and I checked in at the same time! I explain that we need to fly together. The rep says if we want, we can give up both our spots and wait for the next flight, with the added “perk” of a free round trip anywhere in the main 48 states… to be taken within one year, and non-transferable. Great. A perk we can’t even use. Talk about adding insult to injury. Perks aside, this is not an option; we need to connect in Seattle if we plan on getting home.

“Well, we’ll be asking people to volunteer up their seats. If no one volunteers, though, guess what—you just did.”

That was the crossed line, right there. No one tells me when to play Good Samaritan. If you’ve never seen me shut down emotionally, well, you missed another opportunity in that airport. I went into lockdown like the castle doors in the Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban movie. Don’t touch me; don’t cheer me up; just put my boyfriend on the same plane.

I sat; I stewed; I ate yogurt. I asked a couple more questions without answers, I watched the clock, and I watched the TV screen with the list of cleared names and stand-by names. I couldn’t tell if things were getting better or worse.

“It’ll all work out,” Vince says calmly. He has patience to the same degree that I don’t.

“I know that,” I state. And I do. It always does, even if it’s not quite how I want it to. “But it shouldn’t have to ‘work out’ in the first place. We should both have seats.”

Eventually, it does work out. Vince gets called for a boarding pass as they are boarding their first-class passengers; his seat is in the row in front of me. And once we get on the plane (I did not greet the stewardess when she said ‘hi’), the lady next to him is willing to trade spots with me. What a hassle. But I am able to relax enough to take in the in-flight movie and read through my new magazine.

Landing in Seattle, we brace ourselves to have to hoof-it through the airport to go through the process all over again. Three monorail rides between terminals gets us to the gate we need to be at. At the gate is a rather cheery lady named Lori. I explain what’s been going on and how we’d really love less stress on the next flight. She looks at our itineraries, our passports, and gets us seats right next to each other. No hassle, no questions.

“You’re a lot nicer than the other guy already,” I tell her. She smiles and gives us our boarding passes. I decide that anybody named Lori(e) must be a good person.

It is definitely a calmer wait and a calmer ride home; one Vince and I enjoy. Upon landing in Calgary, we move through the airport swiftly and right up to the customs booths, as it is midnight, and there aren’t many people to compete with.

The customs representative I approach is a very formal-looking First Nations man. Definitely looks like someone you don’t want to mess with, but doesn’t look rude or gruff, either. Thank goodness.

“Where did you come from?” he asks.

“Chicago and Davenport.”

“What were you doing there?”

“Visiting friends.”

At this point, customs usually stamps the paperwork and sends me on my way. Apparently not tonight.

“And what about the guy behind me? Who’s he?” I glance up and see Vince, already through customs, waiting for me behind the booths. Does this guy have a mirror?! He never even turned around!

“He’s my boyfriend,” I explain, caught off-guard.

“What’s he doing there?”

“Umm… waiting for me?” It’s more of a question than a statement.

“Why?”

Is this for real? I shrug my shoulders. “I dunno… cuz he cares about me?” I have a nervous smile on my face. Please just let me go!

Customs man stamps my form and hands it back with my passport. As he does, I think I catch the faintest hint of a smile on his face, but I’m not quite sure, and I’m not about to joke around with customs. I move past the booth and quickly grab Vince’s hand.

Our baggage is already circling when we arrive at baggage claim; thank goodness. We head to the exits to wait for Vince’s mom to pick us up. As we watch for her out the windows, a guy waiting near us moves to look out the window as well and bumps his head on the metal trim (I swear, the trim jumped out of no where). Vince and I each discreetly try to hide a laugh.

But given the day’s events, it’s good to be able to finish it off with a smile.

* As a Public Service Announcement, this was a US Airways flight operating under United Airlines. I have never chosen them when flying to/through the USA ever since this incident.