Missing the drop-off

In our novel, The Drop-off, one of our three main characters is dobbed into helping out with the school concert. For someone with no interest in baking lemon tarts for the cake stall, painting fences at working bees, or taking part in any community activities in general, it’s an unwelcome disruption to her busy life. In fact, her very first thought is “How the hell do I get out of this?”

I know quite a few people who have the same attitude towards volunteering at their kids’ school. Truth be told, when our eldest daughter first started school, I was one of them. I had no interest in making new friends, convinced that I had enough, and was way too busy to help out at a primary school, especially when I wasn’t being paid to do it. I was a struggling actor and writer for God’s sake! I couldn’t afford to be doing work for free!

Then someone at school got wind of the fact that I was an arty type and asked if I could help out with the upcoming school production. Cut to the following seven years when my husband I found ourselves writing, directing and stage managing the bi-annual school productions, as well as co-ordinating all of the stage events at the school fetes. And, unlike the character in our novel, we loved every second of it. For us, it was all about taking that first step, and in hindsight I can now see that being part of a community has always been a major part of my life. Growing up, I spent every weekend at either the Altona North Cricket Club or the Newport Football club - barbecues, fundraisers, car rallies… you name it, our sporting community was all over it. But it wasn’t until I was an adult with kids of my own that I experienced the real rewards of being an active part of a community, and that happiness and fulfilment you feel when you’re giving back. The older I’ve gotten, the clearer it has become to me that doing things for others and seeing the joy on their faces, is far more fulfilling than any personal accolades or professional success.

All over the world, community spirit seems to be taking shape in entirely new and different forms.

What my husband and I initially perceived as a chore – something we should do or had to do – turned out to be incredibly addictive, thanks to the warm and fuzzies those experiences inevitably bring. We found ourselves looking around and asking, “what else can I do?” because we wanted to continue having those feelings, and in a weird way this could be interpreted as quite selfish since what you’re doing makes YOU feel good. Whether it was sitting through kids’ auditions for the talent show, stage managing a school production or teaching three hundred kids to sing a song you wrote, there’s no greater feeling than seeing how much fun those kids are having, or the pride you feel when you know they were scared as hell to get out on that stage but they did it anyway. There’s no feeling like it.

But right now, all of that feels like ancient history. The rehearsals, the gatherings, the mum’s nights, the working bees, congregating at the school drop off…it all feels like a lifetime ago. And now, more than ever, it feels as though people are realising just how important

those community connections are. I was talking about this recently with my friend, Kylie, on one of our beach walks. As someone who was heavily involved in our school community (she pretty much ran the joint), she admitted that her sense of community has changed somewhat since the pandemic. She’s had to work harder to remain aware of how friends and family are coping. When in the old world she would naturally bump into other parents and friends at sporting games or school events, now – like so many of us – she spends many more hours in front of her computer, and the vast majority of her day interacting with no one except her three kids and husband. She admits that it was nice for a while to not have the pressure of attending the school information night, or helping out at the sustainable garden working bee, or driving the kids to three different sporting games in the same two-hour timeframe on a Saturday morning. But now she’s missing her community and is making more of an effort to call people and find out what’s going on with them.

All over the world, community spirit seems to be taking shape in entirely new and different forms. I’ve witnessed it and experienced it myself; friends dropping off groceries when we were in quarantine, or the friendliness of total strangers standing on the designated cross in front of me at the café as we wait for our takeaway coffees, or when the daughter of our elderly neighbours texted to thank us for dropping a note in their letter box letting them know we were here if they needed anything. It feels as though people are suddenly looking outward a lot more than inward, and that’s pretty damn special and heart-warming.

All we can hope for is that this awareness of the importance of community stays with us long after the world finally goes back to whatever the new normal is. The character in our book has to find her own way, kicking and screaming, into her community, but right now it seems downright frivolous to ignore the countless benefits of connecting to and appreciating the other humans who share the same neighbourhood as you and your family.

One thing my family and I have really been missing is netball, so I’ll end with a gentle suggestion that if you haven’t already, write your name and number on a piece of paper, along with the following classic netball phrase, and slip it under your neighbours’ doors:

Here if you need.

By Fiona Harris. Fiona is a Melbourne writer, actor, director and a mum of two and the co-author, with her husband Mike, of The Drop Off.

The Drop Off by Fiona Harris & Mike McLeish (Echo Publishing, Published May 2020, $29.99) is available now from all good book stores.