We lost our backpack. And it had the bathing suits and beach towels.

It was our usual summer routine. No car for the day meant a trip on the city bus, just the three of us, to feel the heartbeat, hear the sounds, know what it is to be part of something larger. First stop: library, second stop: the beach.

But somewhere between home and the library, we lost track of one of our backpacks. We were sad and panicked and outright bummed, but searched with vigor and… yes, desperation.

The search was extensive. We left no aisle unturned, though not literally. Imagine the poor librarian and her face if we had done that?! We combed the fiction and nonfiction, audio books, movies, graphic novels, everywhere. But in vain. We stopped on the second floor only hoping to vent the sadness that weighed our exhausted feet and hearts.

From that vantage you can see out the front windows, That day, they were our salvation. For we spied our beloved from afar. It sat, alone and untouched just outside on the blue bus bench. All was restored, all was well, time for the beach… except for the “but” lingering on the other side of the bench: a neighbour, nefarious and unknown.

He was reading a book. Seemingly harmless and yet we raced as if at any moment tranquility would turn into tempest and our arrival would be too late. Our lives depended on it!

There was little need. Backpack in hand and safe once again, the stranger was kind and endearing. The adrenaline racing in our bloodstream suddenly useless, and the day went on, emergency forgotten with the kindness of strangers.

Later we sat on a hillside curb. Apparently being a part of something larger means waiting. To pass the time, I imparted the wisdom of automobiles. It is always a strange hour when you find it quite unusually necessary to teach your children something so mundane that you never even realized it required teaching. How do you tell a Ford from a Toyota? My son was trying to turn the punch buggy game of spying Volkswagon Beetles into a punch Kia game because that is the car that we drive. Only he thought EVERY car was like ours. Ahhhh, no, not exactly, dear one. And so began their lesson of which car is which… Honda, Ford, Dodge, Toyota, Ford, Kia…

Between bus stops we air-conditioned ourselves out at Fabricland and bought new patches for the kids’ school backpacks. They, patches not backpacks, are the only thing I enjoy collecting simply for the joy of doing so. And I’m passing on the silliness. They get a new patch each year. I sew them on. And when a new backpack is required, we remove, place and sew again. How I love my backpack patches and theirs. My green university backpack is like my life story in patches.

Last year our acquisitions were found at the comic book convention – Buffy for me, Super Mario raccoon style for the boy and Care Bears four in a row for my girl. The selection wasn’t nearly as good at the fabric shop this day, but she found a teddy bear patch that reminded her of the bear she sleeps with every night – so that she always has her bear near – and he found a frog with bugged-out eyes holding a book – because he looks a little silly like my son acts.

Tim Horton’s ended up another minature detour. Not that surprising, I know. We had to wait for the appointment that was scheduled between the fun and a double double with donuts can’t be beat for re-fueling. We sat down. And the kids had their cinnamon rolls warmed up.

Share this post!

You may also be interested in these posts:

1. there and back again: the tale of a gamer’s wife Last week my husband came home with Blizzard’s long-awaited Starcraft...