While in Hanoi, a Story Slam appeared on our group’s calendar for a Saturday night, with the topic of “community”.  I admit that my first reaction was that I would enjoy being in the audience to see my first slam.  I then reminded myself that I am actively working on story-telling skills, so I really should volunteer regardless of my uncertainties of the format and the elusiveness of the topic.  Below is a rough transcript of the story I told that night.  Perhaps put yourself with another twenty people, in a second floor lounge at a Hanoi bar with rearranged, mismatched furniture and the sound of motorbikes coming in through an open window, to get a little bit of the ambiance and spirit of the evening….

This is a story about a guy named Dean.

It starts on a fall day in Montreal.  This was a few months after my boyfriend had died, and I was building a new life in a new city, in a new grad school program at McGill University.  In an effort to make new friends, I was visiting the Graduate Student Commons, and soon met some folks playing pool.  This eventually led to a guy (the aforementioned Dean) inviting me to join him to attend the McGill versus Concordia football game.  (For Americans, this was much closer to a Division III soccer game, than anything like Oklahoma!)

As the game was winding down, he pulled a newspaper clipping out of his pocket.  This was indeed back in the day when we held a newspaper, and used scissors to cut out the pieces we liked and wanted to share.  What he showed me, was a notice for an Open House at a curling club.  (Yes, that ice sport with the rocks and the brooms.) He wondered if I would want to go after the game.  My impression was that he wanted to go, but didn’t want to go alone. It was pretty near to campus, and I generally knew of the sport, and was enjoying his company, so I said yes.

When we reached the address, we were in downtown Montreal.  On our right was a tall apartment building; on our left was the Bombay Palace, Indian restaurant, and in front of us was a brick three story building, with elaborate window sills and an arch over the entrance, with a carved wooden door and a large brass door handle.  Oh, and a welcome sign for visitors to the open house.

I opened the door, walked into a foyer with artifacts of the sport that were clearly centuries old, and as I admired them, I was handed drink tickets for the bar, and was taken to see the ice shed which had a viewing gallery all around it, with a wooden railing painted yellow, and a big banner announcing the club’s 147^th birthday.

I met:
– Ben, a financial planner
– Louise, a straight talking business owner
– Doris, a slightly cranky grandmother
– Henry, a Bing Crosby figure with a smile you felt was just for you
– Heather, a medical student
– Elaine, a mother, 7 months pregnant, still playing in leagues
– Angelo, the ice technician who spoke very little English
– and many, many others.

And before I left that day, I had joined as an introductory member and signed up for lessons.

I had found my first curling community.  I found a place where I could try new things and always be supported, especially when I failed – be it getting my butt kicked in a curling match, trying to set-up a website while learning java in the mid-90s, setting up new revenue streams, running a charity event – all to varying degrees of success.  

I loved my time in Montreal, because I loved that club.  We didn’t just show up to play our games and leave.  We spent much more time with each other off the ice than on it. We all celebrated Henry’s 85^th birthday.  We all fell apart when Henry passed away.  We all danced at various weddings.  We all were on edge for the Quebec separation referendum.  Some could sing, some couldn’t and sang anyway.  Some could cook, and some couldn’t and we kept them out of the kitchen.

And even in our most difficult times, we were strong.  The finances eventually forced us to sell the building. (The building turned into a very unique, boutique grocery store with a yellow viewing gallery all around the main shelves and produce section.) And yet we figured out how to start a foundation to support junior curling in the province, and how to get a museum to integrate our history into their collection and archives.  We dispersed and played in different buildings, but still with our jackets and our traditions.  And we all have some piece of memorabilia in our houses – prints, spoons, glasses, pins.  There was a spirit that we shared – based on sportsmanship, but also respect for tradition, and for each other.

I moved away from Montreal, but have continued to have a curling community in my life ever since.  It has grown as I have moved to different cities, and played in various tournaments.  In early March last year, I was welcomed to an annual event that my mother attended for almost two decades.  I took her place in that community, and I will be with them again in two weeks – if air travel plans go well!

But what about that guy Dean?

Here is the message of my story.

I never saw Dean again, or heard from him after that first date.  (And it’s worth noting, that this was before texting, or cellphones, or email, or voicemail.  My telephone messages were captured on a cassette tape in a machine I connected to the phone mounted on my wall. So it is not unusual or surprising that if curling wasn’t his thing, and I wasn’t going to the graduate student center anymore, that we would never connect again.)

I am deeply grateful to him.  It was his curiosity, not mine, that brought me to that door with the brass handle.  We didn’t spend much time together, but he had a huge impact on the trajectory of my life.  And he probably doesn’t know that.

We can all be a little more aware of not just Acts of Kindness, but also Acts of Curiosity.  Is there something motivated by Curiosity, that you did today, or yesterday, or potentially could tomorrow –  for a friend, family member, colleague, or total stranger?  That one small thing may lead them to something they need in their life.  They might not be able to tell you, so I will – thank you.