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  Markham Moments

Markham Moments aims to provide snapshots about life experiences in the Town of Markham that also has some timeless or universal aspect to it. Check back periodically for our updates!
Content is provided courtesy of Bob Fisher, a long-time resident of Markham, Ontario.


Incorporating Markham
by Bob Fisher, November 22, 2002

Like most communities throughout the world, Markham is an intricate and dynamic “village” in which fundamental human and social issues are constantly being expressed and worked through. When humans evolved from the hunter-gatherer stage and created permanent communities, they created many new and innovative social systems. Above all they created marketplaces that were and still are based on the universal concept of the interconnectedness of all things. As the poet John Donne said, “No man is an island.” And those who understand how communities and marketplaces really function – and why – would affirm that “We are all in this together.” The village is outside our front door. It is also now a mind-boggling global phenomenon.

The biggest challenge facing the inhabitants of this village-planet may well be how to make that larger village work. Goodness knows, it is often difficult enough to make the village we are most familiar with run smoothly. But it is important to note that as we evolved as a species villages became inevitable, and village life developed as a result of dependencies. However, the notion of dependence-independence often is not fully understood. We know that each of us began life as a very dependent being. Of all the mammals, humans have the longest period of dependency; we have the most to learn. If we are lucky, we eventually reach a satisfactory state of independence. However, if we think that we have “arrived” by achieving independence, we have missed the point. Our real and final stage of growth is not one of independence but rather interdependence.

And, this got me thinking about Grace.

She is, as the French say, "a woman of a certain age," somewhere past fifty, an indefinite age. Her face has the permanent tan of people who spend most of their days out and about. It is a full face with soft features and clear purposeful eyes that seem to be seeing only as far ahead as is necessary. Her hair is quite grey and has a fullness and natural shape that with an unaffected grace surrounds her rather imposing and proud head; she does not display a conventional coiffure. Her body is large and always hidden by an ankle-length gray coat that sways or flutters according to the weather, flowing about her like faded draperies or an oft-used choir gown. When she walks, she moves like a ship on the sea; her pace has cadence and determination and suggests a known destination but an uncertain arrival time.

I see her almost every day, in the morning, in the afternoon, and in the early evening if there is light, but never at night. She has several local routes and itineraries, and I never know when to expect her. She doesn't seem to venture far; she seems to prefer a simple, patterned existence.

She is always carrying the same two plastic shopping bags that, like her garment, like her hair and like her face, have come from another not-so-distant time, and have known another life. She carries the bags with ease, the way actors carry empty suitcases in Hollywood films. They are full of soft material of some sort. There are no jutting corners or protruding elements that hint at the real nature of the contents. They are full but not stuffed with onerous consumer goods. They emulate her own indulgent shape. There is an unfettered ease about her and her bags.

I am cycling to Unionville through the busy Markville Mall parking lot, a safer route than the increasingly frenetic Highway 7; the lesser of two evils. She is waiting to cross one of the lanes of traffic, she hesitates only briefly, sees an opportunity and proceeds. I stop to let her pass, to watch, to see her up close. I feel a pang of guilt. She sees me waiting and wags her head from side to side, a moderate reproach to the preoccupied drivers exiting the parking lot, and a private communication to me. As she passes me she says, "It's as if they didn't see me." I respond, "They aren't really looking where they are going, are they?" She chuckles softly and replies, "No, I guess not." She smiles and continues on her way. I move off. And then I hear her call to me, "Thank you for stopping. You're a nice person."

So are you, Madam.