Despite challenges, thankful West Broadway is home

Opinion

I’m struck with an unexpected sense of anticipation, reaching for a box of dishwasher powder. I remember this same feeling years ago when I’d found out I was pregnant, reaching for a little floppy fabric bunny from a shelf at Toad Hall Toys. Apparently, I’m looking forward to the delivery of a new dishwasher with the same enthusiasm as the arrival of my firstborn. Such is middle age, I suppose, and such is life with three children and a single-basin kitchen sink.

The anticipation of this particular treat is keeping me buoyed during a week that has been a difficult one in West Broadway, and in ways that are making me decidedly less grateful to call this neighbourhood home.

Last week a story broke about an arrest and seizure of a large amount of fentanyl nearby, brightly coloured and shaped like candy.

At a local spot where many children roam freely, meet up for basketball and bike riding, to share stories of who to trust and who to avoid, we already knew this was happening. The kids are happy to hear this news.

A few nights ago I made a quick trip to FoodFare on Maryland Street to pick up a few items for dinner. Driving the two blocks home, a youth, maybe 14 years old, runs up to my car motioning for me to open the window. He tells me he’s been pepper sprayed and needs a ride somewhere, anywhere. I hesitated. Even though he was young, he was bigger than me. “Please,” he said, “just away from here, somewhere I can wait for my parents.” I drive him to Misericordia Health Centre, my throat and eyes burning, even with the windows open.

When I return home, my husband tells me news of this pepper spraying had already travelled through the neighbourhood kid grapevine, but that our youngest was still down the street with friends. I leave to retrieve him, and pass a dumpster fire roaring to life. I roll down my window and ask a woman on her phone if she was calling 911. She nods.

I find my son and two friends near the end of the street, pack them in the car and bring them home. I tell them it’s not safe to be out right now.

At home, finally, after this wild 20 minutes, having stayed calm for youth, neighbour and children, I start to shake. Along with the drug bust earlier in the week, this was all too much, too close to home and too fast. The kids are still hungry, and with five boys in the house now I set to making dinner, processing what had just happened and what might need to change in our household.

I know Thanksgiving is supposed to be a time when we take stock and share gratitude for what we have, set aside pride, entitlement and count our blessings. But this year it’s coming at a time when I find myself considering if I shouldn’t just pull up stakes and head somewhere where the blessings are a bit easier to identify. A house that has fewer than 120 years of maintenance issues. A garden with a retaining wall and fresh topsoil instead of used-up clay. A warm and convenient attached garage. A youth soccer team.

But as I stir this pot of stew, I know that’s not what I want, that it would never feel like home for me. The pull of home is a powerful force and West Broadway is mine.

So this Thanksgiving I will open myself to receive and contemplate the teachings of this week. I will be grateful for what I can be for others. I am grateful to have a vehicle in which to drive a youth to seek medical care. I am grateful he trusted me. I am grateful to have a home large enough that my children and kids from the neighbourhood can bound up and down the stairs, carrying bowls of popcorn over their heads and chanting, “HaI! HaI! HaI!” with every step, like they’ve just returned from the hunt. I am grateful I have a stock pot in which I can make a big batch of stew, enough to freeze extra for when there are more than the usual number of mouths to feed. I am grateful I learned how to make bread, and can send some home with my kids’ friends.

I am grateful for a city and a neighbourhood that does not let me become complacent, that reminds me to remain steadfast in my commitment and actions, reminds me that people like me are needed. I am grateful for the ways in which this place makes me a better person. And, yes, I am grateful for my dishwasher, and looking forward to seeing if it’s up to the task of accommodating all the dishes needed to host Thanksgiving in West Broadway.

rebecca.chambers@freepress.mb.ca