Janice MacDonald's Blog: Notes on writing - Posts Tagged "women-of-distinction"
Life Lessons from the YWCA
On Thursday, May 29, 2014, I attended the YWCA of Edmonton's 2014 Women of Distinction Awards, having been nominated in the "Arts and Culture" category. It was a lovely party -- a sincere honour to be nominated, a thrilling experience to be in the presence of so many incredible women, and a delight to spend the evening with a posse of very vocal supporters. It also jogged some of my earliest memories of the organization.
When I was four, my mother signed me up for swimming lessons at the YWCA downtown, in a building which is long gone now. The swimming pool was in the basement, and I recall exposed pipes alternating with lines of little trident flags on a rather dark, low ceiling. I am not sure if there was even the height necessary for a small diving board in that pool.
There were bleachers along one side, though, and my mother sat there along with other mothers, breathing in the chlorine, reading her book, and waiting for this particular Saturday morning chore to be over so she could do the many other things crammed into her short weekends.
I am not by nature a floating sort of person. I wasn't when I was smaller and I still am not. I have to work to stay buoyant. While I am hard-wired to learn new skills with eagerness and joy, try as I might, the whole getting across the pool without touching the bottom of the pool never happened. The lessons went on, and I grew more and more sad every Saturday morning. Still, on we went, splash splash with the legs, cup and pull with the arms. Knowing how to swim could save a life, after all.
The last Saturday of the series of lessons was to be a celebration, and each class was to show their abilities to the full complement of parents in bleachers. The whole day-long roster of lessons were brought together to perform in a circus-themed performance. We had costumes and music. Of course we did. Those were the days that tulle was invented for, and if you weren’t twirling a baton, you were tap dancing like a grim little trouper.
Our class of little Esther Williamses were to be lions. We would dog-paddle in a line to the centre, swim in a circle and then dogpaddle, and stretch out into starfish. We had orange tulle ruffs for our heads, and we were told to look fierce. I was great at the looking fierce part, but the teacher wisely tapped another reluctant floater and me to be the central cubs. While the real swimmers did their circle, she and I -- who had trailed along with our paws fiercely parting the water, but our feet walking boldly along the bottom of the pool, stood in the centre of the swimmers and gamely growled and pawed the water.
My mother was sitting there, giggling, and the woman next to her said, "Which one is yours?" Mom pointed and said, "One of those two in the middle." The other mother said, "Oh thank God, mine is the other one1" When it was all over, I think we went out to lunch, to celebrate what my mom used to call "the art of showing up."
So, while I eventually learned to tread water and do a passable crawl that could take me the length of a pool, I didn't learn that at the YWCA. But the Y was where I learned one of the big lessons: how to grin and look fierce, even when you're not managing the right steps. And knowing how to do that can save a life, after all.
Grrrrr!
When I was four, my mother signed me up for swimming lessons at the YWCA downtown, in a building which is long gone now. The swimming pool was in the basement, and I recall exposed pipes alternating with lines of little trident flags on a rather dark, low ceiling. I am not sure if there was even the height necessary for a small diving board in that pool.
There were bleachers along one side, though, and my mother sat there along with other mothers, breathing in the chlorine, reading her book, and waiting for this particular Saturday morning chore to be over so she could do the many other things crammed into her short weekends.
I am not by nature a floating sort of person. I wasn't when I was smaller and I still am not. I have to work to stay buoyant. While I am hard-wired to learn new skills with eagerness and joy, try as I might, the whole getting across the pool without touching the bottom of the pool never happened. The lessons went on, and I grew more and more sad every Saturday morning. Still, on we went, splash splash with the legs, cup and pull with the arms. Knowing how to swim could save a life, after all.
The last Saturday of the series of lessons was to be a celebration, and each class was to show their abilities to the full complement of parents in bleachers. The whole day-long roster of lessons were brought together to perform in a circus-themed performance. We had costumes and music. Of course we did. Those were the days that tulle was invented for, and if you weren’t twirling a baton, you were tap dancing like a grim little trouper.
Our class of little Esther Williamses were to be lions. We would dog-paddle in a line to the centre, swim in a circle and then dogpaddle, and stretch out into starfish. We had orange tulle ruffs for our heads, and we were told to look fierce. I was great at the looking fierce part, but the teacher wisely tapped another reluctant floater and me to be the central cubs. While the real swimmers did their circle, she and I -- who had trailed along with our paws fiercely parting the water, but our feet walking boldly along the bottom of the pool, stood in the centre of the swimmers and gamely growled and pawed the water.
My mother was sitting there, giggling, and the woman next to her said, "Which one is yours?" Mom pointed and said, "One of those two in the middle." The other mother said, "Oh thank God, mine is the other one1" When it was all over, I think we went out to lunch, to celebrate what my mom used to call "the art of showing up."
So, while I eventually learned to tread water and do a passable crawl that could take me the length of a pool, I didn't learn that at the YWCA. But the Y was where I learned one of the big lessons: how to grin and look fierce, even when you're not managing the right steps. And knowing how to do that can save a life, after all.
Grrrrr!
Notes on writing
Watch this space for notes from author Janice MacDonald — on the road, dashing off to another appearance, or working her way through the writing of the next Randy Craig Mystery.
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