Illustration by Chelsea O'Byrne
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Since I moved to the U.K. from Canada nearly 15 years ago, my Mom has been sending me newspaper clippings. She spends her mornings reading the paper, and when she thinks of me she cuts something out. She’s a pretty dedicated correspondent and I reckon she averages about a packet every two weeks.
I’m ashamed to admit that in the past I’ve not always treasured them as much as I should’ve. Sometimes the sheer volume has been a bit overwhelming. I’ve not always had (read: wanted to find) enough time to read the clippings. I used to read the articles each time I went to get my hair coloured. Eschewing the fashion magazines, I’d manage to read four or five envelopes’ worth by the time my greys were gone.
I didn’t savour the articles quite the way I do right now, in these strange and horrible times. I didn’t appreciate them – and the thought behind sending them – quite as much as I do now.
I was always grateful and made sure to thank her for sending them, and I’d do my best to try to remember to mention them in an e-mail, but more often than not I’d forget.
But the virus and the lockdown have put things in a different perspective, particularly since I’m wondering if my annual August visit to see my Mom will be postponed. Seeing Mom’s handwriting is the closest thing to a hug I’m getting for the next while.
As I read articles about how Canada is coping with COVID-19, I think about her at her kitchen table in the house I grew up in, glasses perched on the edge of her nose. There’s something tangible about being able to hold the bits of newspaper in my hands, as she did in hers, that’s probably about as close to human contact as we can get these days. It’s the sort of thing you don’t get when you send a link to an article over e-mail.
It’s the personal touch that matters here – to both of us. Her Mom did it for her when she went away to university, so it’s a tradition of sorts and it’s nice to be part of that. It makes me feel more connected to my family back home.
Sure, we have regular Skype calls, and are always sending e-mails back and forth, but it’s not quite the same as seeing her handwritten comments – the same block capitals that she’s used whenever she’s writing a note to me or my siblings (because we’ve never managed to reliably read her flowery cursive) – on a particularly choice article. In a recent packet, she included an article on the discovery of the “wonder chicken” and her comment: SOMETHING NICE FOR A CHANGE! Another article, talking about how the pandemic will not dent the trust Canadians have in each other merited this comment: A WELCOME POSITIVE NOTE!
Her remarks aren’t usually this long. Most often, she’ll write, “FUNNY!” Or, “HAHA!” There is always an exclamation mark – it remains a trademark in all her missives.
Her other trademark is the topics she chooses. Her focus remains steadfastly on the Important Things, which are, in order of importance: birds, dogs, wildlife, how great Canada is (I have always interpreted this as a not-at-all-subtle bid for me to repatriate myself), and miscellaneous nature and animal-related articles. I’m very up-to-date with Esther the Wonder Pig, for example.
I enjoy the articles she sends, though, to be fair, sometimes she’s a little heavy on the news of how terrible the current U.S. President is, but I try to take that with a grain of salt: She did live in the States for more than 10 years, she’s got good friends there, so she does have a little bit of skin in the game. They’re fascinating, informative and focus on the sorts of things that might get lost in the shuffle – things that I might not notice in my daily online perusal of Canadian news. Articles about how people in Nova Scotia lined up to get a seed from a special plant that blooms only once every now and again, and reports about how conservation is coming along back home, stories about Canada geese being jerks. The sorts of things that, when I’m home visiting, we discuss at the kitchen table. Where, instead of posting me the articles, she’ll just tear them out and pile them up at my spot at the kitchen table, eagerly asking me if I’ve read them yet so we can discuss.
She maintains this habit at a distance, too, when she’s particularly excited about the contents of a packet she’s just mailed off. I’ll be bombarded by e-mails asking if the clippings have arrived yet, and have I had a chance to read them because there’s a particularly good article about the trials and tribulations of, say, racing pigeons. Her excitement is palpable.
And, like Canada Post and the Royal Mail, she’s not letting a global pandemic hold her back. She’s still sending them, and I’ve come to look forward to them in a way I didn’t before.
My building is pretty quiet these days, so the sound of my letter slot opening and snapping closed startles me. I’ll rush to the front door and there on the carpet is a packet of news from home. I’ll return to my spot on the sofa, put the envelope on the coffee table and marvel at this tiny little bit of my Mom.
When I first moved over here, I’d get care packages from friends. The usual sorts of things: peanut butter, Swiss Chalet sauce packets, Tim Hortons coffee. The usual expat stuff. Mom never sent me anything like that, though. I guess she figured they had food here and if I was going to live here, I best get used to it. But she always sent the clippings. And you know what? They’re the best care package going.
Originally from Waterloo, Ont., Gillian Best now lives in Bristol, U.K.