Then Again

When I was in my mid-twenties I thought I would live in Victoria forever. As far as I knew I was too undisciplined and whimsical ever to go to university. I had a boyfriend whom, I assumed, was serious but my working life was in disarray. I set about putting it right.

My first attempt at a career had been working as a preschool teacher. It never occured to me to ask my community college instructors if they thought I had it in me to go further with my education. I wanted to write and the life of a daycare supervisor/preschool teacher was, to be honest, tedious at best.

I loved the kids and I used that to keep me interested in the profession as a whole. Many times I had the pleasure of seeing a little soul wake up to the world, learn to read sometimes or just discover something new. These were wonderful moments but on the whole, as I quickly discovered, working with small children means seemingly endless days of wiping noses, supervising bathroom visits, tying shoes, encouraging eating, mediating disputes, ignoring tantrums and standing near the playground equipment hoping nobody topples off anything. (not to mention dealing with parents, many of whom were dealing with their own guilt at being absent and were anything but pleasant or reasonable)

When one of my little charges died of a ruptured appendix, that was it. I started looking in earnest for something new and, not coincidentally, went into therapy for the depression the child's death triggered.

When I came up for air, I landed a job as a circulation manager for a small local newspaper. It was one of these papers whose editorial content is really only an excuse to carry advertising but it did have some local content and the more interested members of the community - all eight of them - actually paid to subscribe to the thing despite it being delivered free to anyone who would take it.

I was happy to be working in the newspaper business and looked up to the editorial staff, secretly wishing I could be one of them. However, my job consisted primarily of taking complaints, picking up bundles of dumped papers and browbeating the carriers who dumped them. It had a few advantages, chief among them the expectation that I would frequently be out of the office tracking down sodden bundles of dumped papers in the parks around Saanich (a suburb of Victoria) and occasionally delivering papers to subscribers whose carriers had decided to give them a miss.

One of these subscribers was a Mrs. Tidy. Week after week, everyone in her neighborhood would receive their paper while she and her husband Bill did not. It got to the point where I expected to hear from her every Thursday afternoon so I got into the habit of delivering the thing myself.

When Kathleen Tidy started calling the office of the Saanich News she was an uncomfortable reminder of how bad I really was at my job. Within six months I had been fired from the position but the one thing of value I gained from the experience is something that changed my life - the friendship of Bill and Kathleen Tidy.

At first they were just a charming old couple who frequently invited me for tea. Feeling guilty about the inconvenience my employer had caused them and assuming they were probably lonely, I accepted. Tea turned into lunch and eventually Bill and Kathleen, (who were anything but lonely) became like grandparents to me.

They had started their life together in England, met in the shadow of the great pyramid of Giza, (literally) and married at the Croyden registry office while Bill was on leave during World War Two.

After the war Bill was too overcome with grief to return to his old life. He suggested they emigrate to Canada or Australia. They chose Canada and, after a series of adventures, including a stay in Prince George where Kathleen founded the public library, they settled in Victoria.

The Tidys took up sailing in their 50's, they dabbled in archaeology, geology, lived on a commune, had one wonderful daughter, grew oak trees and did calligraphy. Bill took a keen interest in photography and Kathleen took up papermaking. They were extraordinary people in many ordinary ways and as I grew to know them I came to love them dearly.

Bill and Kathleen never once told me they thought I was undisciplined or flighty, to the contrary, they challenged me and engaged my interest at every turn. Kathleen collected rare books and spotting my enthusiasm for her collection she started leading me deeper and deeper into learning. The day she took me to the UVic library, where she had spent the majority of her working life, changed me.

In the library I saw row upon row of books about artists and art, books I never dreamed existed - whole floors dedicated to literature and the study of literature. And Kathleen wondered aloud why I never considered getting a degree.

Their gentle encouragement, their absolute belief in my abilities and in my goodness changed my life. When Bill died of cancer and Parkinson's disease I thought my heart would have a hole in it forever. I told Kathleen I could not take another death, people I loved were forbidden to die until after I was gone, after that, they were free to choose but not before - I hoped she enjoyed the prospect of living to 130 or so because I had no intention of dying young.

After Bill's death, I took greater care not to neglect Kathleen and I also looked harder at the possibility of going to school. Despite my resolute denial, Kathleen was getting older, nearing 80, and the passage of time began to cause me to look into the face of my own life. Jenny, their daughter, lived in Vancouver, together we helped Kathleen pack up the house and move into a retirement community. I knew then that my own life could not go on forever. I knew I had to change.

There were a lot of other things that spurred me to go back to school. And I know this entry smacks of hallmark sentimentality but with the Tidy's gone and Remembrance Day coming up this week, I wanted to say I remember them.

I remember Bill and his stories of riding his BMW motorcycle through the battlefields as a courier but I also remember Kathleen waiting at home. Kathleen with her baby daughter being told she could not go into the stacks of the library at Cambridge. Kathleen punting on the Thames and dreaming of a higher education. Kathleen raising Jenny to believe in books and what they could do for her, Jenny's daughter getting her Masters in History and me - able to grasp the impossible, in part because I met this remarkable couple who opened themselves to the world and opened their home to a stray girl lost in the suburbs of a rainy town.

When Bill died, our choir was working on this piece. I used to walk on the breakwater and sing it the psalm to myself and cry. It still chokes me up. Requiem - John Rutter "Out of the Deep."