I haven’t been home much in the past few weeks and I miss it. I live in Kerrisdale. It is a lovely place to be.
When I’m out in the world I tell people I live in Vancouver, but around here I always say I’m from Kerrisdale. I’m proud of this place.
We have none of the glitz and glamour of the city. No big views. Most people outside of Vancouver have never heard of the neighbourhood. We just quietly go about our business.
During the summer you’ll find many strolling the streets and heading up to 41st or the Boulevard.
On one of those nights I was waiting for my regular Blizzard to be made at our local Dairy Queen (yes, they actually know my order). The young man taking the orders focused his attention on the next customer, an elderly man with obvious strains of Parkinson’s disease. He had trouble speaking and could hardly open his wallet to take out some money. The conversation was painful to watch but also endearing. There was no rush or push, only respect. In due time the request for a dipped cone was made and paid for. Not for one second could I see this man made to feel he wasn’t a valued customer. This is how humans are meant to act.
I walked out with my Blizzard thinking, “I love this place.”
The attitude seems to permeate the entire village. Oh sure, we have some problems, but they are rare. Trouble is not a given here.
We have two Starbucks, one more trendy, one quiet and award-winning. Most say there are too many coffee shops along the main street, but this only means we can all have our favourites. I miss the Cheshire Cheese pub. It closed years ago and we do need a place to go for a wee pint and maybe a whisky. Yes, the shops are changing and some complain. But the people are still here. And we seem to remain the same.
In conversations about how life is going and the general state of the world I usually comment, “I can’t complain, I live in Kerrisdale”.
And if all goes wrong, I can stroll up to Dairy Queen where they will know what I need.
my street, my home