How well does anyone truly know someone else?
Taking the time to genuinely enjoy another’s existence can be profoundly rewarding
Never Judge a Book by its Cover
I knew an older lady, she was a friend of my grandmother’s. As eccentric and eclectic as you can imagine. This 80 something-year-old woman was not your typical 80 something-year-old woman.
Her threadbare dresses looking like something she'd found in a bag that had been cast off to become rags, hung loosely from her broad and slightly portly stature. Some with holes, runs, tears and one particularly lovely gem having part of its left sleeve missing. (I later found out, it was used in a pinch because she was waiting for a sale on toilet tissue).
After her husband died, she began to spend Christmas with us. At Christmas, It would take her several hours to open the few gifts she received from us, as she carefully and meticulously peeled each piece of tape off of the paper, breathing hot breath on the most stubborn pieces so as to not damage the paper so she could reuse it again next year. Every gift we received from her, although thoughtful and heartfelt were usually trinkets and odds and ends from her shelves, walls and cabinets, maybe a gift she might have received the previous year or some ‘treasure’ she found at a garage sale or thrift shop. This woman was reusing and recycling long before it became a regular household activity. If you didn’t know her, you would tend to feel bad for her. She looked and acted as if she were poor, a peasant or destitute.
I used to enjoy reading what she would write on my sugar high. She would insist we drink hot chocolate heavily laden with marshmallows while we dined on a tin of Belgian chocolate wafer cookies. As a retired journalist, the habit of writing became like breathing to her. With no audience after retiring (she had no internet, nor did she want it), I dutifully read everything she deemed ‘worthy' of being read.
The long conversations we would have were most enjoyable. Her intelligence was very apparent. Her dry wit; hilarious. During these conversations, I found myself studying her. Her bare, skinny, whitish-purple, wrinkly legs we’re always devoid of nylons, pantyhose, slacks or even socks. When she was at home, never did I ever see any resemblance of a shoe, slipper or boot on her massive size 11 calloused feet. She went barefoot indoors and out in every season, only donning a pair of completely worn out canvas slip-on shoes or unzipped galoshes with the tongues hanging out if she had to go somewhere special like to the bank, Dr. appts, or to our house for Christmas.
She burned wood in her little, dark and dank sitting area/den where she spent the bulk of her time. (Although the massive mansion, perched atop a side hill overlooking the majestic and winding Musquodoboit River boasted many nicer rooms with breathtaking views, walls of windows and plush, comfortable furnishings). This amazing woman would pile every stick of the 12 to 14 cord she would get for the winter season by herself in her worn-out dresses and bare feet, refusing help from anyone who offered.
As humble as they come, If I hadn’t been aware that this woman was indeed a MULTI-MILLIONAIRE, I certainly wouldn’t believe it if I met her as a stranger on the street.
RIP Marg 💖
