Blog Dis
Tinny Peete and the Bright Red Wrapping Paper
2023-12-21
The reddest red ribbon was tightly wrapped around the box, placed with delicate care next to the man, houseless, who was bundled up in a sleeping bag, on the pavement, of an apartment building in the downtown city centre, where the vent blasted out a steady supply of heat. I walked past the man and noticed the box because it stuck out like a sore thumb. My first thought was obvious, Santa has come calling before December 25 and I was impressed with his timeliness. Our temps dropped dramatically last evening and it surely feels like a crisp -18 Celsius (that's 0.4 degrees Fahrenheit). For some, the bounty of Christmas is a daily affair, what with their cars and food and clothes and palatial homes. For the less fortunate, however, Christmas came and went years past and no one gives a flying hoot.
On tippy-toes, I approached the man, sound asleep, and inspected the box. I must confess my curiosity got the better of me. I observed how the bow had been tied with three broad loops and I remember seeing similar loops like these on another box in another corner of the city. It had to be Tinny, I told myself. That man gets around with his teeny-tiny digital camera and, if you think there's a spot in Ottawa that Tinny has yet to uncover, to photograph, you'd be sorely wrong. Take my word for it, the man gets around town. Well, the sleeping man rolled over but thankfully he stayed asleep. I had no intention of disturbing his box. A small tag, open-faced, was tied to the ribbon. Gingerly, I turned over the card to read its hand-written note:
"Christmas is for Communists," it began, "A truly just and fair society isn't built on the preservation of property rights but on the disbursement of wealth."
Good heavens, my friend Tinny Peete is at it again. He gets around town, that man. I had thought what a grand way to wake up, opening one's eyes to the sight of a gift box, about six inches square in size, covered in red wrapping paper, with red ribbon at least three inches wide. And the red wrapping paper was so bloody red that my eyes had to adjust to the shiny brightness of the colour. Naturally, Tinny. His heart is magnanimous and true and his aim is simple: we are all one short fall away from oblivion. No doubt Tinny may have taken a snapshot of his gift for posterity sake. What a sight that would make. Red boxes with red-wrapping paper on every street corner for each individual coping outside, sleeping on the cold-hearted surface of pavement and sometimes wet snow in winter. It requires an individual with a sturdy constitution to exist with limited possessions in winter, outside, whittled down to the minimum: sleeping bag, boots (more likely sneakers), one scarf, one coat, perhaps two pairs of socks, underwear, a sweater, and deep pockets, deep enough that one red box could be tucked inside for safe-keeping.
I never looked inside the box. Of course I wouldn't, nor did I know for certain that Tinny had in fact left that special offering. I could only surmise it was my wayward friend Tinny Peete because of the footprints of Tinny that I know are periodically left behind far and wide in my fair city. The surprise gift box inspired me to reflect, as I walked to work: How much do you really need to be happy? How many homes do you really need to own? How many cars do you really need to get around town? Do you need a roof over your head, someone to support you, to love you, to fight for you, to care for you?
Think about all of your possessions, the creature-comforts, the ostentatiousness of your life, so that the next time you launch into complaining mode, to wallow in your victimhood, please think twice about your luxuries and compare what you have to those who have barely a fraction of them.
On tippy-toes, I approached the man, sound asleep, and inspected the box. I must confess my curiosity got the better of me. I observed how the bow had been tied with three broad loops and I remember seeing similar loops like these on another box in another corner of the city. It had to be Tinny, I told myself. That man gets around with his teeny-tiny digital camera and, if you think there's a spot in Ottawa that Tinny has yet to uncover, to photograph, you'd be sorely wrong. Take my word for it, the man gets around town. Well, the sleeping man rolled over but thankfully he stayed asleep. I had no intention of disturbing his box. A small tag, open-faced, was tied to the ribbon. Gingerly, I turned over the card to read its hand-written note:
"Christmas is for Communists," it began, "A truly just and fair society isn't built on the preservation of property rights but on the disbursement of wealth."
Good heavens, my friend Tinny Peete is at it again. He gets around town, that man. I had thought what a grand way to wake up, opening one's eyes to the sight of a gift box, about six inches square in size, covered in red wrapping paper, with red ribbon at least three inches wide. And the red wrapping paper was so bloody red that my eyes had to adjust to the shiny brightness of the colour. Naturally, Tinny. His heart is magnanimous and true and his aim is simple: we are all one short fall away from oblivion. No doubt Tinny may have taken a snapshot of his gift for posterity sake. What a sight that would make. Red boxes with red-wrapping paper on every street corner for each individual coping outside, sleeping on the cold-hearted surface of pavement and sometimes wet snow in winter. It requires an individual with a sturdy constitution to exist with limited possessions in winter, outside, whittled down to the minimum: sleeping bag, boots (more likely sneakers), one scarf, one coat, perhaps two pairs of socks, underwear, a sweater, and deep pockets, deep enough that one red box could be tucked inside for safe-keeping.
I never looked inside the box. Of course I wouldn't, nor did I know for certain that Tinny had in fact left that special offering. I could only surmise it was my wayward friend Tinny Peete because of the footprints of Tinny that I know are periodically left behind far and wide in my fair city. The surprise gift box inspired me to reflect, as I walked to work: How much do you really need to be happy? How many homes do you really need to own? How many cars do you really need to get around town? Do you need a roof over your head, someone to support you, to love you, to fight for you, to care for you?
Think about all of your possessions, the creature-comforts, the ostentatiousness of your life, so that the next time you launch into complaining mode, to wallow in your victimhood, please think twice about your luxuries and compare what you have to those who have barely a fraction of them.
