I finally managed, last evening, to compel and propel myself out the door, canvass kit in hand, at 7:00 p.m.  It was a cool, windy and heavily overcast day, but the rain had relented, and it was about 6-degrees, and as such an improvement over the previous week's weather patterns.

I decided I would diverge from my usual custom of approaching the top half of the street first, where I know all the residents, many of them with a decades-long friendly neighbourliness.  It is that half of the street that I have become accustomed to relying on for their positive response to my solicitations on behalf of various charities I've agreed to embark on their annual door-to-door canvass for.  On this occasion it was the Canadian Cancer Society.

This time I thought I'd do first what I usually leave for last; the bottom half of the street.  Beginning on the left-hand side off I went.  And it wasn't, many doors knocked upon fruitlessly later, that I finally arrived at the foot of the street where the homeowner greeted me warmly and enthusiastically that I secured the very first donation.  Of course I know her fairly well, from the first week we ourselves moved to the street.  At that time she was a young happily-married mother of two, expecting her third.

She is now divorced, her children grown, only her youngest now living with her, attending university.  She has brightened up considerably from that time five years ago when her husband left her.  At that time she had decided, on the advice of concerned friends, to get a puppy for companionship.  That puppy is now a fairly mature dog upon whom she dotes.  And she never fails to respond to requests for charitable donations, cheerfully.

Things improved only slightly, as I crossed the street to the opposite side and began knocking on doors there.  The houses there have turned over considerably since they were first built about 23 years ago.  Many people don't bother responding to their doorbells.  Doubtless they resent having their television viewing interrupted and possibly don't even hear their doorbells.  Those that do open the door to me, prefer not to give.

And then, things pick up as I begin to reach the half-way mark that demarcates the street's character for me, with people welcoming me, and responding generously.  By that time it is beginning to get dark and visibility although not completely impaired soon will be.  And I decide to pack it in for the day, resolving to venture out to complete the canvass another evening, or possibly Saturday afternoon. 

The reception I'm afforded by my nearer neighbours never fails to expunge the uneasy and melancholy feelings that overcome me at the hostile reception given me by those people inhabiting the bottom end of the street.  We re-connect and re-affirm our concerns, our kind consideration, our human interest in one another's well-being. 

And they do not hesitate to affirm their co-operation and responsibility to the many resources and concerns of the community that should be supported by all of us.