– by Trysh Ashby-Rolls –
When I was about 10 years old, my family lived next door to a woman who resembled a witch in an illustrated children’s book. Her cheeks were sunken, she chewed on her gums where once she had rows of teeth. Her face bore wrinkles and crinkles and hair sprouted from her chin. We kids swore we could see warts on her hooked nose.
“Poor old Coley,” mother said.
Too bad she didn’t know the old lady’s story or we might have viewed ‘Coley the Witch’ with less prejudice. Perhaps in awe that she had helped win the war – spying for the Brits behind enemy lines or helping to decipher codes at Bletchley Park. Or working in a munitions factory putting together intricate pieces of machinery. Maybe she nursed injured soldiers in terrible conditions overseas, yet managed to survive the bombs, firestorms and bullets. She may have had mental health issues, hardly surprising after enduring six years of war. We had no idea and cared less. We never wished her a good morning, or asked after her health like we did the cemetery workers or the man who’d had one of the first facial reconstructions after World War 1, although it made him look like Pierrot. We didn’t give Coley so much as a wave or a smile. Mother never took her a freshly baked loaf of bread or a batch of cookies. Miss Coleman was old, a has-been, dismissed, discounted. We didn’t even mock her like we did the retired schoolteacher on her other side – but that’s another story.
How do younger generations view those of us in our sixties, seventies, eighties and up? Dismiss us as silly old farts? If they stopped to talk to us they might discover Fred once played on a famous hockey team. Irene may not be much of a looker now, but decades ago she strutted her stuff as a fashion model. Kathleen flew Hurricanes throughout the war but no commercial airline would hire a woman pilot. Instead, she married and spent her days cooking, sewing, cleaning, and ironing hubby’s shirts before producing several children in quick succession. “She still doesn’t look her age!” her friends say. Ivan in the wheelchair invented household articles that today are name brands.
I live at Wrinkle Ranch, as I’ve heard my small seniors’ complex called, but my neighbours have fascinating stories about their lives. I’ve asked; I’m nosy like that.
How do we view kids with tattoos and piercings, weird outfits, hair every colour of the rainbow? Do we say hi to the boy skateboarding along the sidewalk? What about the bored-looking girl who wipes the table before we order our morning coffee? We don’t know what’s going on behind the mask unless we begin the conversation. Maybe she’d love to talk.
A genuine smile and a friendly greeting given unreservedly cost nothing and can make someone’s day. Given unconditionally, expecting nothing in return can be a confidence booster, the turning point that leads the skateboarder to get the coveted job he wants. Or the bored table-wiper to finish school. Eventually their photos may be in Seaside Magazine as a Woman- or Man-to-Watch. Our Stars-in-Waiting need mentors and friends of all ages to encourage their efforts. So do we. For those of us who grew up in a narrow-minded world, let’s dissolve the barriers and reach out.
Imagine how different the quality of Miss Coleman’s and my mother’s lives had they dropped their guard, smiled and said hello.
