The rains have stopped and people
affected by the floods in Calgary and Southern Alberta are putting
their lives back together as best they can. Evacuation orders have
been lifted and many are back in their homes. The main theme of these
floods has been people helping people and, for once, positive stories
makes the news regularly. I have done very little to help, other than
staying off the roads and trying to conserve water. I look forward
to doing my laundry and having showers more frequently when the state
of emergency is lifted. We will also attend a benefit concert
tomorrow. It's not much but it's better than being in the way or
being, as some people have, a “Nenshi noun.” Google that one.
It's a good story.
My empathy for “John Smith” is for
all whom I know and don't know who have lost so much in the flood and
for all those who have worked tirelessly to help in whatever way they
could.
My empathy for “John Smith” is
also for a much more mundane reason: his name. Beginning in December
of last year I began receiving some rather puzzling emails. The first
emails that showed up in my inbox were newsy and interesting
describing a holiday in Australia. I know a lot of people and,
although I couldn't place the names, I thought we must have met the
couple on one of our cycling or hiking trips. I read the emails with
interest, still not able to figure out exactly who these people were.
I got an email about a property someone
wanted to buy and thought it must be some kind of Google aberration,
so I deleted it. Next I got a lunch invitation to a restaurant that
certainly isn't in Calgary. I wrote the sender back saying that I
would love to come to lunch but since I lived in a different city, I
was pretty sure I wasn't the intended recipient of the invitation. I
also expressed the hope that the intended recipient wouldn't miss a
lunch date because I got the invitation instead.
Next, I received an email from a woman
undergoing chemotherapy. The tone of the email was friendly and
familiar but I couldn't place the name. I emailed back saying that
if I knew her I was drawing a blank and asked her for some context.
I got another email saying that a previous email had somehow been
sent to another Marian Hood and giving me further updates on the
state of her health. I wrote back, wished her well and again said I
was not the person she wanted. The line from Star Wars, “These
aren't the droids you're looking for.... Move along,” began
marching through my head.
I figured out that the problem must be with
my gmail account. I hardly ever give out my gmail address because
even people who know me well sometimes misspell my first name. Then
I got an email from a church in Washington. I emailed the sender
saying that if I knew the email address of the person they wanted I'd
gladly save them a phone call by passing it along. I got a very
polite, somewhat startled, reply asking me to delete the previous
message. No problem.
Finally ( I'm a bit slow sometimes) I
googled my name. I expected to find a couple of references to
articles I have written and not much else. This time the first hit
was for Marian Hood, a realtor in Washington. The site included her
business email. I emailed her the story. I think she was as
surprised as I was that there are two of us who spell our names the
same unusual way. She promised she would do what she could to
straighten out things at her end and asked that I forward any emails
I received in error to her. So far I haven't received any more of her
mail.
The experience is odd for me in a
couple of ways. I can count on the fingers of both hands the number
of people named “Marion” I have met. I can count on the fingers
of one hand the number of “Marian's” I have met who spell their
names the same way I do. I'm simply not used to sharing my name with
anyone. I imagine for John Smith being mistaken for someone else is a
tiresome reality.
The second thing that struck me is
that, for a time, I felt part of a a specific network of friends who
tell each other of their travels, reach out to each other for
support, and plan lunch dates. I am grateful for the photos of
Australia and the lunch invitation even though they weren't meant for
me. This is a circle of good friends doing what good friends do for
each other. Somehow I'm glad this woman who shares my name is part of
such a circle even as I am part of one in a different country. It is
circles of friends like this who come together as a community to
offer their homes to flood victims, who don rubber boots to help muck
out basements. It is circles of friends who find ways in which they
can help others and, in so doing, give to their communities kind and
caring faces.
