The Sum of Our Parts

The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few (or the one).

All for one and one for all.

It’s not the name on the back of the jersey that matters, it’s the crest on the front.

Call me a socialist and you likely won’t be wrong. I am all for sharing the wealth in support of the whole. Everyone has resources. Everyone has a talent. Everyone can—and should—contribute. I’d not presume to dictate comfort zones, but the best thing about humanity is the way we rally to support a person, a family, a community, or a country in need.

There is something to the attitude of putting the good of the group ahead of stardom for one. Take the International Ice Hockey Federation’s 2019 World Cup Junior Champion Team Finland, for instance. Consistently outmanned, outgunned and short-handed in the final against team USA, they stuck together and ground it out to win the gold medal. There were no superstars and no obvious egos in their game. They were just a bunch of young guys doing their best to help each other.

And win a trophy, of course.

Hm. Competitive sports might not be the best example—though sport is supposed to teach kids the value of teamwork. Too often I see pro players either trying to draw a penalty or whining when they get caught themselves. Participant ribbons for all was maybe not a good idea.

I laughed out loud at a commentator remarking on Canuck wonder-rookie Elias Petterson’s understated celebration when he scores a goal. The kid is Swedish. Modesty becomes them. In fact, it’s taught to children in many cultures around the globe. The “modesty lie” is encouraged in some countries—commit a random act of kindness, but don’t take credit for it. I agree with that in part; when asked point blank if I put cookies on the office snack station, I confess because I’m busted. There’s no point in lying when I’ve been naughty, either. (And some would suggest that’s the case when I put cookies on the office snack station.)

But in this magical world of contrast and the human experience, superstars are inevitable. Everyone wants to be special, even in societies where they’re taught to be ordinary—or at least not to be extraordinary. That’s hard for an ego to endure. I get that. I also know that everyone is born special. The best thing anyone can do is be themselves. That’s why we’re all here. Be yourself and be the best at it. As Martin Luther King once said, even if you’re a shrub, be the best darned shrub you can be.

The whole garden will look better.

With love,

Super Duper Bright Red Nuker

The old—and I mean old—Panasonic microwave recently started to emit sparking sounds unrelated to the popcorn Ter was making. When the stench of hot wiring wafted from the vicinity around the machine, she killed the process and together we searched for the source. We thought we discovered it in a charred food fragment lodged between the door and the inner sanctum that a) turned to ash when I touched it and b) left behind a puke-inducing reek that matched the hot-wire smell precisely. We cleaned up the machine and returned to business as usual.

A week later, Ter is popping more corn and the sizzling sound erupts again, accompanied by the same burning wire smell. This time, she’s adamant and she’s right. It’s the nuker. It’s ancient, it’s served us well, it’s earned its rest.

We inherited the Panasonic; we didn’t buy it ourselves, so we’ve been out of the market forever, but we were immediately united on one point:

The new one would be red.

So we went shopping. Seeking a screaming scarlet finish makes the job a lot easier than if you’re looking for performance specifics; we nailed one on the second stop. Problem was, there were none in stock except the floor model and the salesdude seemed reluctant to let us take away the demo. So we went home, Ter got online and found five in stock elsewhere—four at one outlet, one at another, and all about halfway out of town. Ter on a mission is an unstoppable force, so I got out of her way and off she went to buy one.

She gets it home. We free it from its Styrofoam molding, peel off the protective shrink wrap, hoist it onto the cook’s cart, and damned if the cord isn’t too short to reach the plug. So we switch out the sockets, plugging the nuker into the stereo socket and the stereo into the former nuker’s socket. I’m dazzled by the smarts in this thing—it heats a cup of water in 70 seconds, thaws frozen food by weight, will bake a potato by instinct, pops perfect corn (Ter’s sole stipulation), and it’s candy apple Corvette red.

I’m still engrossed in the manual and don’t notice what she’s doing until Ter says in a dread-filled voice, “Ruthie, the stereo’s not working …”

My head jerks up. “What?”

“The stereo’s not working in that socket.”

My stomach plummets. My voice croaks, “Don’t tell me …” but my mind is shrieking, We bought a brand new nuker and it’s the freaking power outlet? And what does a bum power outlet mean? How do we fix that? Is the house about to burst into flame? Are we about to die in our beds? Are the smoke alarm working?!

Then Ter checks behind the boombox—which was new a month ago—and almost moans with relief. The plug had come loose when we moved it to switch the microwaves; she pushes it back into place and we have ignition.

I nearly had a heart attack, but it’s all good now.

And the oven looks super cool in our kitchen.

Medal Mettle

It kills me to hear an athlete say that they’ve disappointed their country when they don’t win gold at the Olympic games. Ter and I watched Patrick Chan this week, biting our nails when Japan’s Yuzuru Hanyu blew a few jumps in the free skate and thus left the door ajar for our man on blades. Four points had separated them after the short program and after Hanyu proved to be fallible, in theory, the gold was Chan’s to lose.

Only he had a rough skate, too. In the end, those four points made all the difference. Patrick Chan won silver in Sochi—twice. He also helped his mates to silver in the first-ever team skating event, and if not for those Russians …

Finnish hockey god Teemu Selanne said in Torino that bronze is better because you have to win that medal. Silver simply means that you lost the gold (Sweden beat the Finns in 2008—thanks to a broken hockey stick, of all things). Since he put it that way, I understand the disappointment and long faces often seen on the second place finishers. My attitude has usually been, Hey, you got to the final! But in sport, there’s one winner and there’s everyone else.

Patrick Chan said with tears in his eyes that, among other things, he felt like he’d disappointed his country. I’ve heard others say it, too, and every time my heart breaks not for the country, but for the athletes themselves. They’re the ones who put it on the line, who work and train and devote their lives to pursuing their passion. Wow. Olympic gold. Sure, it’s a pretty colour. It symbolizes supremacy. It’s a funny thing, but I watch the Olympics and see greater things than gold medals being awarded. I see the athletes supporting each other regardless of nationality. I see relationships being forged and differences being dissolved. Champions don’t always win a medal. Sometimes they just finish the race. And while I get that flying your nation’s flag lends some responsibility (kind of like how you behave in someone else’s home reflects on your parents), there isn’t one member of the Canadian team who doesn’t deserve to be at the Games. They’re all heroes to me.

Two Girls in Sneakers

We shook up the feng shui at home, yesterday. Ter’s been unable to sleep in her room for much of the past year because the neighbours’ 50-inch TV is situated below her bedroom, and since they are the loudest people we have ever lived with—ironic, given the stringent reference checks we went through specifically asking how noisy we are—it became easier (once we thought of it) to move her into my room rather than fight with them about it. It meant juggling a few cumbersome pieces of furniture. For two women in their fifties, losing approximately half a pound of muscle per year and each coping with her own particular brand of structural damage, it presented a daunting challenge. So daunting, in fact, that I began to suspect Ter of dawdling as the day wore on and we were still out and about on errands, with the challenge and our regularly scheduled laundry day still before us.

At three in the afternoon, however, we threw in the first load of laundry and got down to it. First task: shifting my computer desk, which weighs a ton and doesn’t bend around corners. Yep, it was heavy, but we did it. Negotiated it out one door, paused for breath. Hauled it a short way down the hall, paused for breath. Angled it through a second door and congratulated ourselves on not blowing out a vertebra. In comparison, the bed was easy, except for the staple that bit Ter when she gripped the boxspring in a delicate place. Three bookcases followed (one to the hallway and two to the new writing room), then my dresser was repositioned and Ter was able to bring in her night table and get her sleeping space in order. Yay, us!

Hooking up my computer and the stereo took a tad more finesse. I couldn’t remember how to connect the speakers though I had only just disconnected them, so I had to call in Ter. She also had to help with the peripherals on my writing rig, pushing the keyboard cord up through the back of the desk so I could grab it from above and plug it into the PC. That was one of the more comical moments, her pushing the wimpy cord up and me unable to grasp it from the top with my right hand. “Can you get it higher?” I asked, at which she crept forward a bit and promptly bumped her head against the keyboard tray. I felt the cord’s end brush the tips of my ring and little fingers but couldn’t bend them to catch it (they have false joints and don’t always go where I want them). “No!” I gasped, half-impaled on the desktop, “this is my three-fingered hand; move it to the left!” At which we both nearly collapsed into giggles. Three hours later, the whole project was done.

We work so well as a team, bouncing ideas off each other, giving and taking as required, discussing and debating, trying one thing then deciding on another and having everything fall into place better than we had imagined. We learned, by moving twice in two years, that a room will tell you where things ought to be placed; you start with a plan and end up with what works best. We moved into this suite believing that each in her own space would be beneficial for us both; thanks to the self-absorbed folks below us, it’s proved not to be the case—at least, not for now. Now, the room-that-was-once-mine is designated for sleeping only; there’s no technology at all save for the evil clock-radio, and the boom box that plays new age white noise during the night … and the feeling in the room is already calmer and more peaceful. I found that strange, given that my energy alone occupied it until yesterday. I’d half-expected to feel as if something’s been taken away, but if something has, I can’t say what it might be. The space is large enough to accommodate each of our personalities without clashing. In fact, I think Ter’s brought a serenity that my red-and-gold “Lannister pad” lacked. She’s much happier now that she knows she can spend the whole night in her own bed instead of starting on the sofa and relocating when the TV goes off downstairs.

And I still have a room in which I can write undisturbed. Win-win!

We have been a team since 1984. Over three decades, we have accomplished great things. I still recall her leaning against the wall outside our new apartment in 1993, having just hefted a Xerox box full of books up 56 spiraled stairs. She was panting a little, flushed and glowing as only a fair-skinned Finn can make attractive, when she looked at me and grinned. “If this doesn’t prove we’re possibility thinkers, nothing will!”

Thirty years later, whenever we pull off a coup like we pulled off yesterday, I am reminded of the birthday card she gave me in 2005. I don’t remember what we had conquered that year, but she was pumped about something when she wrote the card: “This is the perfect card for us! Look what we’ve been able to accomplish this year. Just imagine what we can do in the next year! Are you up for it?”

There’s nothing two girls in sneakers can’t do.