Frankly Speaking

They – in their infinite wisdom – say it takes a village to raise a child. Having grown up in a village myself, both figuratively and literally, I have to say on this one, I definitely agree.

The old adage flowed to mind again this week as I stood on my back porch and got a glimpse of the newest additions to the suburban village where we now live – a playground in muted burgundies and grees, matching swings, trees and benches to boot. It might take a village to raise a child. But it takes a park to raise a village.

All of a sudden, this is a neighbourhood. The tractors have headed off and the construction dust is beginning to settle. The Halloween decor is in full evidence on every front stoop. The fence guys are just about done dotting the yards with their bits of decorative wrought iron. And in the middle of it all now beats the heart of a village.

I never knew what a gathering ground a park could become. But morning, noon and night, this is the spot to be. Parents chat with parents. Kids play with kids. Dogs jog happily along the sidewalk and all of a sudden – here we all are, shaking hands, making acquaintances and smiling amongst strangers who – drawn to the centre to check out the action - have now become our neighbours.

No matter where we lived growing up, my parents always reminded us that home is not a building or structure of any kind. It’s wherever we are gathered together. This is my first house of my own, and standing in the backyard, chatting with my neighbour about her flu, I can’t help but think they were right, too. It takes a park to make a village – but it takes people to put the finishing touches on. Right now I’m here, far from what my home once was, but together with my Kenny and my Russell and revelling in a little village built around a central park. This great little place is where our first house is and where we are together. And it’s starting to feel a whole lot like a home.

Last year around this time I had the chance to move to Toronto. My first thought was I’d do anything to be closer to a Pottery Barn. My second thought was that Torontonians are always bragging they live in a land where boots are merely pretty accessories, and not part of the functional fun that is winter. Both thoughts seemed pretty good to me.

With that in mind, my weekends are often punctuated with lingering visits to “my” mirror at Pottery Barn ($799 and holding) and to the newly opened Crate and Barrel next door (where “my” $950 coffee table currently lives). I venture in and out of these charmingly lit places wearing little shoes and no socks because the temperature seems to be holding. So far, so good -until today.

It snowed. On the way home. It snowed for about 15 minutes. And all Hell promptly broke loose.

The train slowed to a crawl. No one was sure why – but it made the 5 p.m. newscasts on all the radio stations. Cell phones started chiming to life and passengers gripped the strangers next to them, asking for updates, information, anything at all. “It’s snowing!” one woman shouted after snapping shut her cell phone, all heads turning in wonder to the windows as if the verbal confirmation would explain the wet white stuff slapping against the glass. I don’t have to tell you what my first thought was on this one. I’m quite sure you already know.

With that in mind, I finally made it home, 30 minutes late and feeling every bit the Montrealer at heart who’d been just a little bit duped, to say the very least. I’m sitting here at my desk, in a tank top and Capri’s. No socks. No sweater. No heat on because quite frankly – it’s just not fair.

No snow my you-know-what. All I can say is, good thing I packed my winter boots. And thank the Pottery Barn Gods for lay-away.