Open Writing

The little brass plaque always shone in the morning sun and people would squint at the lettering as they walked by. Maybe they expected to see an inscription “In Memory of John Smith 1914 - 1998” or “Elsie Woodbine 1937 - 1999”. Or perhaps they imagined the honoree sitting on it, enjoying a moment’s peace surprised to have been remembered in such a loving way.

But this plaque didn’t read like at all. The inscription on the bench I could see from my kitchen window simply said “Municipality of Metro Toronto”. I say, “Said” because the City has taken the seat and the identifying label away. Yes, after only a couple of years, the attractive community bench with its varnished slats and wrought iron feet has gone.

Strangely, our kitchen and many others in the tall, thin Victorian town houses typical of our neighbourhood, in downtown Toronto, are placed at the front, overlooking the street. Mother loved it when she visited. She and I would sit in the kitchen’s little bay window tucking into our syrup-drenched breakfast pancakes and morning coffee donuts, watching the world go by … go by the little park containing the bench. For a Yorkshire lady used to the neighbourliness of row housing, it was perfect.

“Eh, they’re well-matched!” She’d laugh, staring at an undersized man sitting on the seat with a little dog panting at his feet.

“Wonder what she’s up to? ” She’d chuckle spotting a flighty lass adjusting her make-up there.

And, “Just look at them lads lolling on that seat in them great baggy pants. They’ve got their hats on back to front!” She’d grumble. “They want to turn that radio down!”

Or, with concern, she’d ask, “Do you think we should go and see if that poor women needs help? Look, she’s lying down with no shoes on.”

And that was the trouble. The bench fulfilled its purpose only too well. Beneath the tall maple trees, beside the winding path, it was irresistible and citizens took advantage. They crowded it; let their children climb all over it. They lounged and dozed on it in far too great a number. Eventually, some residents must have complained, because the bench was dismantled and taken away.

So, the pleasing green area, home to the popular seat, no longer offers shoppers and lovers a place to unwind during the day or affords drug users and prostitutes a spot to relax between shots and johns at night. No longer can children check their homework on their way to school or drunken partygoers lie up before staggering home. Even the daily litter of the busy downtown core; styro-foam cups, plastic trays, syringes, paper bags, condoms and cigarettes ends, is conspicuous by its absence.

Seasonal freeze-thaw temperatures are breaking up the concrete base on which the seat was set and weeds are growing over the crumbling remains. You can however, still see the four holes where the bolts screwed it down.

Four perforations: sad testament to the fact that success can be a killer.

Mum would be so disappointed.