We got her over the snowbank, and then...

The sidewalk was impassible with a cart

It was still snowing last Thursday as I walked back from an appointment on Roncesvalles and came across a tiny old woman stuck in the snow.  She'd been doing okay pushing her bundle buggy along until she emerged from the railway underpass on Lansdowne to find the sidewalk hadn't been cleared. To make matters worse the road had been plowed and now much of that snow was now on the sidewalk. When I came across her it seemed she'd been there for a while trying to figure out what to do - a thick coating of snow had built up on the shoulders of her beige coat and the top of her knitted turquoise hat.

Luckily her situation wasn't hopeless. Two cheerful strangers were already at work. A young woman in a red wool jacket was kicking at the snowbank, trying to clear a path for her to get down on the road, and a man in a dark grey parka was offering to lift the buggy for her. "Can I help?" I said as I joined the group and soon other passers by offered to help too. 

Eventually we got her over the snowbank, and then the red coated woman and I stayed with her, making sure no cars hit her as she made her way up to the No Frills in the curb lane (there wasn't much traffic). We introduced ourselves along the way: the old woman's name was Janina, and the young woman's was Jane. "You are so kind," Janina kept saying. 

              

Janina's footprints on the road

Janina was a sweet woman but as we walked along, I found myself thinking badly of  her children. Assuming she had some, why hadn't they made sure she had a full cupboard before the storm? And then oops! I remembered I had an elderly mother too. If it was snowing in Toronto, there was probably even more in Ottawa. I resolved to call my mom as soon as I got home. 

Then I found myself wondering if Janina was alone in the world. Did she have no children? No partner? Was she out on that snowy morning because she had no choice but to get the groceries by herself?

When we finally made it to the door of the No Frills we could see a chair just inside the "out" door.  Jane ran ahead and opened it so Janina would be able to sit and rest. As we prepared to say goodbye, Janina reached into her pocket and fished around. She pulled out two candies, one for each of us.  "For the sore throat," she said, smiling. Then she lowered herself into the chair and heaved a sigh. 

Our destination

"I hope she'll be okay getting home," I said to Jane as we walked away. 

"Oh I think she'll be fine," Jane replied. "Remember she had about eight people offering to help her.  I think the snow makes people nicer." 

"You know I think you're right," I said, and then we went off on our separate ways, both happy to have made Janina's day a bit easier.

Back in university I studied psychology, and I remember learning about the bystander effect: the more people who see a person in trouble, the less likely it is that one of them will help.  They say it's because of "diffusion of responsibility" and it's one of the more disappointing things about human nature. Good modelling can change everything though. If just one bystander takes action the rest are much more likely to.   

To my knowledge there's no mention in the research of a snowstorm effect, but the research does say we're more likely to help people we think are like us.  And in a way, in the middle of a snow storm we do become more alike  - all united against the one common problem of snow.  

Days later most of the snow had melted when I headed out to the Y for my weekly fitness class. As I pulled on my mittens there was something inside one of them - Janina's coughdrop was still there. I thought fondly of her, hoping she made it home okay with her groceries. And then as I walked to the Y I had a flashback to a memory of my mom. 

It was about seven years ago and she and I were at the dining room table. My dad was on a father-son vacation with my brother, exploring World War One battle sites, and since my parents rarely spent time apart I'd gone up for the weekend to keep my mom company. It was after dinner on the second night when she started complaining about how lonely her life was now that she was old (81 at the time) and her good friends were all dead.  I pointed out she still had lots of friends, but she shook her head. "They're not my contemporaries," she said. "I didn't grow up with them." 

I remember making an excuse, saying I had to get something and heading down to the basement. I remember standing in my dad's workshop, clutching the edge of the workbench while I wept.  Why was my mother so determined to feel sorry for herself?  Why couldn't she appreciate how lucky she was?  She had a husband, a son, and a daughter  - a daughter who was sitting right in front of her.  Meanwhile I was forty two, childless and single.  When I reached her age I'd have none of those things. 

As I walked to the Y I thought about moment and shuddered. I was still single, still childless. Would I end up like Janina one day - all alone and dependent on the kindness of strangers to get me through the snow? And then I stopped and shook my head. I'm just like my mom, I realized.  Instead of feeling sorry for myself I too need to appreciate how lucky I am. I'm healthy, and happy and on my way to the gym.  I felt Janina's candy in my mitten again, and smiled the rest of the way.