This week has been the kind of week that sometimes leaves me unable to write: one of those weeks where the truth is so outrageous that teachers would be unable to read the whole thing and non-teachers would be so gobsmacked that their mind would rebel and they would declare that this must be an exaggeration; one of those weeks where if I wrote even half the truth, I’d be out of a job; one of those weeks where it’s a lot easier to focus on the crazy than the good.

Andre and I talked about this wild ride of a week as he accompanied me on my daily walk. The weather was much milder than it had been earlier in the week (see yesterday’s complaint), and we chatted companionably as we walked along the almost-thawing sidewalks of our downtown neighbourhood. We stopped at a store and were on our way home when we saw it: a delivery van stuck in the heavy slushy snow, its wheels spinning. Three young men surrounded the van; another was behind the wheel. They were well and truly stuck. As we watched, the driver hopped out and went around back to join one of his companions. They stared forlornly at the wheel.

As Andre and I got closer, one of the men near the front came around to join the two in the back. They conversed briefly, then everyone went back to their original positions: one driving, two in front pushing, and one in back calling directions. Andre was already putting our shopping bag on a dryish patch of driveway as he looked over at me and said, “Wanna help them?”

Of course I wanted to help. This moment – the car stuck, the people pushing – this is part of winter. This is what we do. The wheels spin; the passengers get out; everyone pushes. If that’s not enough, passerby or neighbours pitch in. As people arrive they call out something banal like, ‘Wanna hand?” but they don’t wait for the answer: they are already pitching in, already pushing. So it was with us.

One of the three outside guys said, “Pushing didn’t help much before, but maybe with more of us…” He trailed off because, of course, we were already there. Someone counted, the driver reversed, we all pushed. The van resisted – “rock it!” – rocked forward and slid a little back and sideways. We paused to regroup. The was a brief conversation, but the result was inevitable: we did it again.

There isn’t really space for five people to push the front of a van, but that didn’t stop another passerby from leaving his well-dressed partner to wait on the sidewalk as he joined us. “One, two, three!” We pushed again. More progress.

The girlfriend watched, bemused. The guys gathered and looked at the new situation. “Ok, come forward a little, straighten the wheels, then reverse. We’ll let it rock forward, then push.” We all returned to our positions. The countdown, the forward motion, a giant heave-ho and… free! The van was on the street!

The driver waved out the window to thank everyone. I waited for the other three men to hop into the van, but they didn’t. Two picked up their own packages – I hadn’t noticed them before – from various dry-ish spaces nearby. One loped off on his own, empty-handed. The man who’d joined after us, went back to his partner. He laughed, “She’s not from here. She’s never seen this.” We laughed, too: “You haven’t really made it through winter if you haven’t rescued a car.” They continued on their way. One man turned down a walkway nearby. Another crossed the street in front of us.

It turned out, none of us knew each other. Six strangers (well, I guess I know Andre, so four strangers and a couple) had all stopped on their way from somewhere to somewhere to push a seventh stranger out of the snow on a Friday evening because, despite the pandemic and war, despite nuclear reactors and shooting threats, no matter how crazy the week or the world is, helping someone out is just something we do.