I'm like a pencil;
sometimes sharp,
most days
well-rounded,
other times
dull or
occasionally
broken.
Still I write.
j.g. lewis
is a writer/photographer in Toronto.
Category: Uncategorised
It’s one of those places you pass by as you walk or drive down the street, a neighbourhood restaurant like so many others.
Now, I’ve never been inside the Morning Glory — it’s on one of those streets where I rarely travel, and really not that close to my neighbourhood — but it was one of those places I intended on getting to someday.
Unfortunately, I will not have the opportunity.
The Morning Glory closed down at some point during these past pandemic months. It is like so many other neighbourhood restaurants or stores we pass by each day in our daily lives.
The past six months have been tough on business, particularly those small and family-owned. Some have managed to hold through the lockdown on by offering takeout and delivery; others have not been as fortunate, even after regulations began to loosen as COVID-19 cases seemed to drop.
The restaurant industry is not the only sector of the economy hard hit by this coronavirus in Toronto and all cities and towns across this country.
You now see the signs everywhere on the streets — “Store Closing”, “Closed”, “For Sale” or “For Lease” — just as you see the empty spaces through the streaky glass windows; places where people used to congregate for lunch on the run, or pick up a coffee to go.
For 17 years, the Morning Glory was that sort of place.
What struck me, as I stopped to read a letter posted inside the restaurant’s door, was the honesty and appreciation the owner had for the Morning Glory’s former customers.
“We have seen our fair share of ups and downs but one thing has remained constant, our community. Our beautiful customers, neighbours, friends and family have stuck with us on this journey. You let us into your lives. Together we shared so much more than just meals,” reads the open letter.
It is devastatingly sad how something unexpected, like this deadly virus, impacts the lives of so many people more than we may ever understand.
It is difficult knowing the Morning Glory will not be the only place in this city, or so many others, which will lose contact with people who became friends over a morning cup of coffee, or light banter over a late lunch.
These were people who were, at first, little more than strangers. They were nameless faces, as the former owner writes in this letter
“I don’t even know all your names. I will know how you all like your coffee and what you eat for breakfast though,” reads the letter.
It is so often said that small business is the lifeblood of this country. Judging by the number of shuttered mom and pop restaurants and corner stores I see now on my daily walks, the pulse of this fragile economy is on life support.
Despite the money being poured into stopgap measures designed by multiple levels of governments to stop the bleeding, we are still unsure of the prognosis.
Nobody has any idea of how long this will last, or the true impact of this pandemic on the global economy.
But we can look locally and see what it has done to our neighbourhoods.
And we can feel for neighbours we might never have known, and maybe make an extra effort to support those operations that are still in business, when we can and if we can.
Look around. This is your community.
I was saddened yesterday by news of the sudden passing of a cousin.
I am still unclear of the details, but was appreciative of being included on an email chain sent to family members and relatives spread out across this planet.
He was one of those cousins you looked up to.
While we were not close in age, and lived in separate cities for many years, he was one of those cousins who had an impact on my life.
When I was a kid, he would always take the time to play football, or roughhouse, with a much younger cousin. As I grew up, he was one of those people you admired not only for his career achievements, but also for who he was as a person.
A dutiful son and loving uncle, he was a wonderful man who took a real interest in people. He had one of those smiles that would brighten any room, and one of those laughs that would fill it.
I mentioned his laugh in an email with another cousin yesterday — again we were not close in age, and are distanced geographically — but she too fondly remembered his endearing laughter from a very young age.
It was as genuine as he was. My cousin was the type of person who would listen intently to whomever he was talking with.
I will also remember how he was always there for his mother. Having lost his father very early in life, he was raised by a strong woman who cared deeply for two young sons. As a young adult, I marveled at the relationship this man maintained with his mother, particularly after his younger brother passed away far too early.
We would occasionally bump into each other when we lived in the same city; often he was out with his mother. It was my pleasure to invite the two of them over for our family’s Christmas dinner.
I remember the sadness in his voice when he called to inform me his mother had passed on.
I thought of his mother, again, yesterday as I looked at the email chain and reflected on how we, my family, are all spread out now and how little contact we have with each other. We all lead separate lives and somehow any connection we once had has slowly dissolved.
I was fortunate, this time, to be told of the death. Often it has not been the case. You find out months, or years, later.
It’s sad, really.
I thought of how we, I, need to try an make a more substantial connection with the people who shared coffee with me at my mother’s funeral, Kool-Aid or tea at yet another birthday, wedding or anniversary celebration and people who, somehow, share my bloodline.
Right now, I seem to know so little of them or their whereabouts. I, honestly, had to sit down and think of names, and relationships, and ages. Both my father and mother were the youngest of many children, so there are decades and generations to account for.
I lost track, or heard less news of relatives, after my mother passed on; even less after my father’s death.
And now, with the passing of another cousin, I feel even less of a connection.
I know, and understand, death is part of the life cycle; we are born and grow up knowing we will die.
What matters is what happens between the two dates that bracket your life and not only your experiences, but your connection to others.
It is not only if, but also how, you will be remembered.
©2020 j.g. lewis
Posted on September 2, 2020 by j.g.lewisLeave a comment
There is nothing as inspiring as a blank page.
When you begin something new, there is always potential to discover. You learn more about yourself each time you begin a new project.
This past August was my blank page.
I needed a creative boost, I needed to inspire myself and get out of this pandemic dysthymia that has been weighing heavily on all our shoulders. I needed to see, or rediscover, what I could do (or what I needed to work on).
So, each day this past month I immersed myself in the creative process. I wrote, I painted, and I carried my camera with me as I walked throughout the city. Artistically speaking, the camera has always been my first love. I also rediscovered my paint box.
I had no goals in August – no deadlines to meet or results to achieve – and didn’t even keep track of what I had accomplished. I just did what I enjoyed and took time to myself. I looked closely at the details, I looked around as much as I searched within. I spent time with my art.
I took joy in capturing moments as they sped on by, as life does. By taking the time with my art I was able to slow life down just a little.
Art is life.
Life is art.
I live with it.
j.g. lewis
