LOST & FOUND

Lost & Found November 3, 2012. Published in the local paper.

It was a perfect summer day in July. My husband and I had packed a picnic to enjoy at Ambleside in West Vancouver. We could not have guessed that a short time later we would be frantic. . .combing the beach and garbage cans, wondering if someone was about to enter our home in Squamish or steal our truck.

The walkway along the ocean is a favourite of ours. With views of Stanley Park and Lions Gate Bridge, we follow the crowd of joggers and walkers, past playgrounds and parks. We find a bench in a small garden to enjoy lunch.  

The breeze has died down and I take off my windbreaker. But first I have to remove my purse which I pull over my head. When it’s time to leave, I take my camera case in one hand and the jacket in the other. Back home in Squamish, I reach for my purse. . .but it's not there. We search the back seat, the inside of my pack, the trunk.

"Oh, no," I say to my husband. “I must have left it at the bench when we stopped for lunch. Without wasting a moment, we jump in the car for the hour long trip to West Vancouver.

"God," I pray, "I know it's not big on your agenda. It's just a purse. . . but it's got my house keys, my truck and car keys, my mail key and credit cards. I'd be so grateful to get it back." 

We drive along in silence. For the next while, I picture a circle of light around my purse, keeping it safe.

At Ambleside, we comb every inch of space around the Ferry building. We look between logs and in blackberry brambles in case someone has dumped it. 

The West Van Police office is our next stop. My husband wonders why the police would trouble themselves about a purse. “I’m sure they are interested” I say, “because something like this can lead to identity theft.” 

Over the intercom, the police woman asks me to be specific. I hesitate. . . Have you tried, under stress, to remember everything that hides in the recesses of your purse? She prompts me. . . “ What about a health card? Your social insurance card? Your birth certificate?”  I reply ‘yes’ to all three.  


The officer says, “Would you hold, please? I have someone on the other line”.

I look Rainer’s way. “Do you realize what this will all cost to get locks on the house changed, the mail key done, the keys for the vehicles. . .? We’re going to have to park our vehicles somewhere else tonight.”   

The officer comes back on. “Mrs. Schwarz. . .” “I have someone who has found your purse. You may pick it up from her house a short distance from here.

Tears well up in my eyes. I feel like I’ve received an unexpected gift. It appears the father, who doesn’t speak much English, had taken the purse home and asked his daughter to report to the Police. And here we are, on the phone at the same time. It gives me goose bumps!

Feeling stunned by the news, we drive up Capilano Road to meet the young woman at her complex. We introduce ourselves and she says, “good guess” when I ask if her family is from Iran. She explains her father had been at the Ferry Building and noticed a purse by the park bench. She apologizes for going through my belongings but she had to find my phone number to leave a message in Squamish.

I can’t thank her enough and although she protests, I write a check by way of thanks. I tell her I’ll send her some of my photo cards of the Squamish area. She says she writes poetry and asks if I would like to see some. We exchange addresses.  

Three months later, an envelope of poems arrive in the mail. I have to smile. One thing is certain, I found an “angel” on that day in July.

LIVING THE DANCE

”Mom’s dancing alone in the dark again!” my daughter tells her brother and looks my way in mock embarrassment. I realize there are lots of things my adult children don’t know about me.

“Your Grandma would have loved to dance,” I say, “but the Great Depression got in the way of her dream. Maybe that’s why I was given so many opportunities.”

I think back over the years and how my love of dance got packed away in the closet like a souvenir from the past. Then I read an article last winter in the Vancouver Sun (Dec.12/08) called, ‘Passion: it’s your key to a better life’ in which Dr. Susan Biali talked about wellness and how a decision to follow her passion for flamenco dancing literally saved her life. This really resonated and I realized that at age 58, I needed dance back in my life. I remember that wintry night. . .

Though quite ill with bronchitis, I found a favourite CD by Loreena McKennitt and put it on. Like a puppet on a string, I rose out of my chair and began to move. . . slowly, as my body was able. The music led me out of stiffness into fluid movement. Joy, like an elixir, coursed through my veins and for a time I forgot that I was sick. Tired but happy, I collapsed into the sofa, amazed that the act of dancing had awakened a stream of memories.

I remembered my lovely grade one teacher, Mrs. Girrard, who noticed my response to music and my inclination to dance. She sometimes put on a record and let the children move around the classroom. It was my favourite activity. That same year, my mother invited a dance instructor, Mrs. Kelsall, to give lessons to the local children in our large basement. We learned ballet, tap dance and movements with baton.

I thought about a photo in one of the family albums. I’m 8 years old, wearing a costume with a flared skirt. My hair is tied back in a ponytail that reaches to my waist, my face tilted upwards as my Mother paints red circles on my cheeks. I’m about to dance in a final recital at our Community Hall in Parksville. Unknown to her, I have a fever, my heated face unnoticed under the red makeup. I forget some of my dance steps and leave the stage in a fluster. Soon after I come down with pneumonia and end up in Port Alberni Hospital.

That same year brought intense longing and a fateful decision. I had my sights set on the beautiful Maypole dance. Like members of a secret society, selected grade three students were taught how to weave the red, white and blue ribbons to form intricate patterns. I knew the music by heart and had memorized all the dance steps. The anticipation, combined with the sweetness of Spring, was almost more than my young soul could bear.

But it was not to be. My mother said the dust stirred up by the dancers in the school yard would aggravate my asthma. (By year end, I had missed a total of 3 months of school due to illness). For the moment I was inconsolable. My cherished dream was buried in a storm of tears.

My dance studies continued. By grade six, I travelled to the neighbouring city of Nanaimo which meant I had to leave school five minutes early each Thursday in order to catch the bus. One day, my teacher stood me in front of the class. “Are your dance lessons really worth it?” Mr. Robertson asked sternly. “Do you think I can let you go 5 minutes early and not allow the others the same freedom?”

This humiliating incident, coupled with a growing difficulty to perform the ballet routines -- an inherent stiffness in my body, according to the specialist -- led me to abandon formal lessons.

Throughout my life, however, there were other dance opportunities at parties, weddings and such. Sometimes I put favourite music on at home and danced. If I confessed to anyone that I danced alone and especially with the lights turned low, it was as if I had revealed a dark secret.

When my husband retired, we stayed that first winter at an RV resort in California. Most of my time was spent convalescing from yet another bout of pneumonia. One evening while he was away, a piece came on the radio that stirred the blood in my tired veins. Beethoven’s 7th Symphony -- the beautiful 2nd movement -- pulled me out of bed like I was being led by the Pied Piper.

In the California desert thousands of miles from home, I moved in slow steps up and down the narrow aisle of our motor home. The heroic music built to a climax and I could feel my world expand beyond the walls of my small room and beyond the confines of my illness.

There was a drought of several years when, for one reason or another, I no longer danced. That is, until the day I read Dr. Biehl’s story which reminded me of what I had been missing. The gentle stretching to my favourite music was just what my aching body needed. And like water in the desert, dance fed my spirit and gave me joy.

“So you see,” I say to my children seated across the room, “There are lots of stories from my past. And dancing is not only about having a supple body, the right moves or an audience to impress. It’s about the pleasure of moving and enjoying each step on the way.” I sent a quiet thank you to Dr. Biali for reminding me of that.

Copyright Joanna Schwarz

HEAP OF MISERY

The car sits disembodied in the driveway, entrails of loose wires hanging from every opening. The backseat is gone. Moldings around the tire hubs are stripped like flesh scraped bare, exposing more wires. The remains are strewn about our driveway like a 1000 piece puzzle. I wonder how it’s possible to get it back together. 

Erik is so proud of his first car, paid for in long hamburger-slinging hours at McDonald’s. It’s an imported model, a wine colored Audi in great condition. The previous owner hopes he’ll take good care of it. The first three letters on the licence plate are HFH. I call it “His First Heap!”

Erik says he needs a bigger boombox, the original stereo doesn’t produce a decibel level high enough. He wants the throbbing sounds to be heard two streets away. I think he yearns for the primal heartbeat of the womb.

I watch my nephew, his 6‘2“ frame straddled awkwardly across the gearshift, wedged between the seats. He analyzes the positive and negative connections. I wish he had as much patience when asked to do the laundry.

At some point in the afternoon, the installation turns bad. Wires cross and there’s a mini meltdown. Now much of the electrical work is ruined. I can’t bear to see Erik’s expression.

I hate to think what all the self-inflicted repairs will cost. I’m sure Erik won’t admit that every mistake is burning a bigger hole in his university savings account. If only I could spare him.

“It’s a learning experience,” he says with a sheepish grin. I admire his grit. No complaining or whining this time. For the moment he’s stuck in our driveway, but I have confidence that he has his sights set on bigger goals down the road.

Copyright: Joanna Schwarz