Love Notes from the Street

Look past the grime on an urban block, and you'll find homespun tributes to the good.

Hundreds, maybe thousands of locks make up this giant heart in Toronto's Distillery District. Each lock bears a message of love.

“People don’t care,” I grumble to myself, steering my dog past a turd that resembles an upraised middle finger. Then I remember the good souls who not only care but proclaim their caring to the world in the form of homespun tributes that dot my Toronto neighborhood. These neighbors work on impulse with whatever they’ve got handy, from fridge magnets to a bag of apples. They’re not artists but they know the art of living. Their love notes, which may not contain any words, often vanish within hours but have an urgency that can’t be captured with a plaque on a park bench.

“There lives the dearest freshness deep down things,” wrote Gerard Manley Hopkins. He was speaking of nature; it’s no less true of human nature. An urban street is like a communal self-portrait, evolving moment by moment. It’s the trampled remains of nine hundred and fifty-seven lunches, the whizzing scooter that nearly knocks me down, yet it’s also the testaments of love that call me to my senses.

Here are five from my album of treasured urban moments.

“I’ll always miss my big-hearted landlord.”

Heading home from the gleaming temple of groceries, I spotted this tribute outside a corner store. Curtis, the owner’s late landlord, took a chance on an immigrant with a dream. “I will so miss you, your smile, your hugs, if it was not you, your trust, your encouragement, I wouldn’t exist.” Why do mean landlords get all the attention? In honor of Curtis, I picked an avocado from the bin just to offer my sympathy at the cash. “I’m sorry you’ve lost Curtis,” I said. “He sounds like a very special guy.” It has taken me a lifetime to learn that people need to hear their loved one’s name. Until that day, I didn’t realize that the loved one might be a landlord.

“It’s our home, and we couldn’t love it more.”

This rowhouse could use touching up, but to the couple singing its praises in fridge magnets, it might as well be a love nest in Laurel Canyon, circa 1970. When Graham Nash wrote “Our House” for Joni Mitchell, he mentioned a fireplace and a vase of flowers. I doubt there’s a fireplace at this address, but I’m crossing my fingers for a posy. The last time I walked Casey past, the homeowners and their dog were shooting the breeze with neighbors. I wanted to tell them their house makes me smile, but it seemed rude to interrupt. The dog has three legs, which deepens my affection for this perfectly imperfect little house. Why covet any other address, when everything you want is here at home?

“Our glorious love is now a glorious memory.”

Hey there, lost love. Someone’s calling you from beneath an underpass. Maybe you’ll never see the message someone painted with a confident hand. I looked up at the swirl of a heart and thought of Jack Gilbert’s “Failing and Flying,” in which the poet compares the death of Icarus to the end of a great love. Icarus deserves more credit, Gilbert says. “I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell,/ But just coming to the end of his triumph.”

“Please help me save these baby birds.”

The news had been shredding my heart when I noticed this improvised sanctuary for baby birds. A good Samaritan had found an empty paint can for their nest, made a sign with red Magic Marker, then positioned the whole contraption on a window ledge, safe from kids and dogs like mine. (Birds too young or broken to fly are the only ones Casey has come close to mauling.) The can never budged that summer, as the letters on the sign faded to pink. The nestlings didn’t make it. The good Samaritan told me so herself, through tears. Then she added that she’d try again next spring. Some years later, I don’t know if she has managed to save any birds. But I can tell you her devotion she saved my spirits—and inspired a chapter in my memoir Starter Dog.

“I care about my hungry neighbors.”

In the first shrunken spring of the pandemic, three perfect apples appeared in a water fountain where water was not on offer. Hungry people had been roaming the neighborhood, helping themselves to snack foods from a box outside Trinity Church. Energy bars couldn’t match the lovely heft of these apples, reminiscent of a Cézanne still life. The apples had vanished by the end of Casey’s walk. They nourished three people who hankered for a bite of something crisp and fresh—or so I like to think, four years later. Now they nourish me. You may remember them from my Welcome page, a toothsome promise that keeps me writing. Can’t you imagine biting into one of these beauties?

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If you enjoyed this post, head over here to see a sister’s love note to her prodigal brother. Or here to join me in a moment of silence for one wonderful dog named Bruno. I hope you’ll take a minute to tell me what you think. Could be your take on one of these photos, could be a love note from your own street. What else? Your call. I like surprises.

All my posts are free to read, yet some readers of heart and means are paying for subscriptions just because. What a feeling! Still, I can’t say it too many times: I’m here to meet readers, not to pay the bills, and you are all among the great joys of my life. Feel free to share—you’ll be spreading the word. See you in the comments. I’ll answer every one.