My darling Melissa

I remember when you were born. You opened your adorable eyes and looked into mine and I said “I know you!”

I remember when you were two and we got a new fridge. I told you the box was a rocket. We hopped in and I asked where you wanted to go. You said “To the MOON mum for fish’n chips!”

I remember when you were three and I was working while you played; you came up to my desk and asked “Whatcha doing?” “Bookkeeping”, I said. You asked if you could go up to your room. I told you “Yes, but come right back, okay?” A few minutes later my heart leapt to see you coming down the stairs with an armful of storybooks piled high. On tippytoes you slid the huge pile onto my desk and proclaimed “Here, keep my books!”

I remember when I had decided you were old enough to know how to handle money. I sat you down with a very detailed explanation of spending, saving, emergency funds, investing and net worth. When I finally wound down, you burst into tears and exclaimed “It’s too much mum! It’s too much! I’m only six!”

I remember when you were upstairs with your cousin being far too quiet. On investigation I found you both sitting on the bed with very guilty looks. I asked what you were hiding under the blanket and you said “Your naughty book, we found it in your dresser.” I asked how you knew it was my naughty book and you told me you read it on the cover. Then you showed it to me and I realized you were sounding it out. The cover said Notebook.

I remember when you were in high school and invited me to an assembly. Imagine my surprise when you walked out with a microphone and sang a solo.

I remember when you were given months to write a school essay. I asked you over and over if you had started it. “Not yet mum, don’t worry, I’ll get it done.” Finally, days before it was due, frustration got the better of me. I said “If you get under an A on that paper, there will be big trouble”. “What if I get an A?” “Dinner out” I replied. Two weeks later, you walked up to the door shaking that paper in the air. “Get your boots on mum. It’s Dinnertime!”

I remember when you told us you were not going to go to university; you would get an online writing certification from Queens. You loved Owen Sound and did not want to leave.

I remember when you came home and said you finally got to write at work and that one day you hoped to be Manager of the Roxy because you felt at home there.

I remember when you fell in love and told me your head was in a swirl.

I remember when you were 30, living happily in your own sunny, cozy, oh so loved apartment. You showed me your budget and asked “Well, what do you think?” I replied that I was very proud; it was perfect. With a laugh, you said “And my net worth?”
Your net worth, my darling daughter is
I N F I N I T E.

Til we meet again, I will remember when...
So very much love, Mum

I wish to thank all who showed Ron and I kindness and support through this most difficult year. To mark this date and as a gift to all whose lives she touched, I would like to share one of Melissa’s stories. I hope for the short time you are reading this that you can feel you have spent some time with her once again. In Gratitude Leslie Monk

The Freedom in Solitude

By Melissa Monk

“Hey, hey, pretty mama… why don’t you come over here and say hello?”

It was with a feeling of dread that I realized these words were directed at me. I was standing on the street with my suitcase in one hand and a crumpled piece of paper, a printout from Google Maps, in the other. I had just stepped off the Greyhound in downtown Toronto. I was all alone and totally disoriented. I felt oddly abandoned by the large group of Old Order Mennonites that had been my primary companions for the journey; the urge to tuck my map away and blindly follow them was strong. And now here I was, a small-town girl, flying solo in a massive city I’d been in perhaps four or five times before, getting catcalled in the street by some strange stoop-dwelling man.

“Thank you, but I’m busy right now,” I replied in an unnecessarily formal tone, hitching my bag up and heading in what I hoped was the right direction. As my admirer’s protestations faded from earshot, I reflected that it was probably an appropriate beginning to my trip. The entire saga was intended to be a firm step outside of my (admittedly, rather narrow) comfort zone. I can do this, I thought to myself suddenly. If I can survive that catcall, I can survive anything.

Vacations to exotic locales were not a part of my childhood experience. To be honest, we never really vacationed to non-exotic locales, either. My parents were deeply committed to the homebody lifestyle and, thanks to a severe peanut allergy, time spent without them by my side was limited. I was fifteen before I ever set foot in Toronto, on a school trip to see a play. Coming from a city of 22,000, I was enthralled. My classmates delighted in my over-the-top responses to seeing the CN Tower, skyscrapers, and homeless people for the first time.

By the time I reached my early twenties, I had revisited the city a handful of times, always either in a large group or the care of a resident Torontonian. The trips had been agreeable enough, but my role was always passive - I went where instructed and did as told. But it was the missed chances I kept thinking about. Going to concerts is one of my favourite things to do, but unfortunately my musical tastes don’t overlap with that of my friends’. When my favourite artist announced a tour (the first in eight years), I scrambled to find somebody to go with. Of course, nobody that wanted to was available.

So what, Melissa, a small, stubborn part of myself announced, You have missed too many concerts because nobody else wanted to go. Not this time. So I bought a ticket, just one. With the planning instincts of the chronically anxious, I meticulously researched the venue’s location. I booked an airbnb apartment (after carefully reading pages of reviews), researched stores and restaurants, and accumulated sheaves of dog-eared maps. My friends and coworkers thought I was nuts to be going alone, but I forced myself not to care.

So here I was. I had a couple of hours to kill before I could check into my accommodations, which meant I had time for the Eaton Centre. I set up camp in my favourite clothing store, stowing my suitcase in one of the fitting rooms, and wandered the mall unencumbered. I was thrilled with the novelty of the experience. I window shopped. I ate lunch. I people-watched in probably the frankest, most small-town way imaginable. I gave my pocket change to a woman asking diners for money. She asked for more; I refused. “Cheap bitch,” she muttered sourly and walked away. I stared after her in wonder. I’d never been insulted by a stranger before. I chalked it up to another ‘first’ and didn’t let it bother me.

Finally, it was time to find my apartment. I stepped out onto Yonge Street, blinking in the sun, and consulted my maps. A streetcar was required for the next leg of my journey. I’d never ridden a streetcar before. How did I find the stop?

“Excuse me,” I tentatively began, and stepped up to a man picking up garbage with a pointed stick. “Would you be able to tell me where to find… how to board…” Oh dear. This wasn’t going well. I’d better try again. “I need the 505 streetcar,” I said simply, “Can you help me?” He laughed, as amused as I was flustered, and offered instructions. He showed me the little signs announcing a streetcar stop and warned me of the sometimes treacherous boarding conditions. “Don’t be afraid, mon,” he advised in a thick patois, gold-capped teeth twinkling, “but don’t linger in the road neither.”

From there, the journey was smooth sailing. I boarded the streetcar (the operator took pity on me and told me when to get off), got the key to my apartment, dropped my bags, and collapsed on the couch.

Soon enough, it was time for the concert. I peered down from my tenth floor balcony at the swarms of people below, nervousness niggling at my gut. I’d never been to a concert alone before. I worried I’d feel awkward and lonely, surrounded by people on dates or out for the night with friends. I worried I’d get lost on the walk home, confused by the changed surroundings in the dark. Steeling my resolve, I put on fresh lipstick and headed out, armed with my ticket and trusty map.

At about the third song into the show, I noticed with some amazement that I felt totally at ease. It was freeing being here by myself, I realized. I wasn’t constantly looking to a companion, worried about whether or not they were enjoying the show as much as I was. I wasn’t annoyed by a friend that constantly wanted to chitchat or take selfies. And I suddenly recognized the tantalizing joy that can be found when you’re surrounded by people you’ll never see again. By the fifth song in, I was singing along and dancing with abandon. By the eighth, I’d made friends with the people beside me (also devotees to the band). Come the encore, I had my arms wrapped around the man beside me, a perfect stranger, and we were bawling the lyrics to each other and gesturing grandly. I’d never had so much fun in my entire life.

I emerged from the theatre in a daze - hair askew, throat raw, barely able to hear. I felt great! I wasn’t even remotely worried about finding my way home, despite the fact that I had somehow misplaced my treasured map. I walked over to a couple standing beside the entrance, smoking and discussing the show with vigor. “Wasn’t it incredible?” I began. We passionately discussed the concert (best of our lives, no doubt), before I broached the subject of how to get home. Better than any map, they told me how to get there - occasionally interrupting each other and arguing about which route was best

The rest of my trip was wonderful. I lingered in stores for as long as I liked, I ate whatever I felt like (ice cream for lunch - why not!), and spent two hours in the crystals and minerals room at the ROM. The entire trip was unabashedly, deliciously selfish. I felt like a secret world had opened to me - that of travelling solo. The rewards were plentiful and I was amazed to discover that there was no sacrifice. I was never lonely, because I made friends wherever I went. Sure, they were transient relationships - I never even knew the names of most of them, but it didn’t matter.

I’ve travelled alone a few times since. Each trip has been just as rewarding as the first and the thrill of discovering something for myself hasn’t worn off. And although I still plan my trips and print my maps, these things don’t have quite the same talismanic hold on me they once did. I’ve discovered the strength inside myself to deal with unexpected catcalls, angry beggars, delayed buses, language barriers, and unfamiliar streets. I don’t need a companion. I am enough.

Memorial from June 2020 in the Owen Sound Hub